


Evun'elan

by Thess



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Fade Shenanigans, Humor, Romance, The Fade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-08 02:44:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4287750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thess/pseuds/Thess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor is ready for everything to settle into business as usual at Skyhold following Corypheus' defeat and Solas' disappearance-at least until Dalish Keepers start vanishing and the Anchor explodes in her bedroom.  Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Now-Firstfall

Meryn Lavellan figured it was only a matter of time until Jowly found a body.

She could hear him-or rather she could hear the appropriately sized flesh prison he was parading around in-trying to follow her. Meryn imagines he will try to finally carry out his promise to "rip her secrets from her flesh and gorge himself on her blood," which, she notes proudly, was getting more and more difficult for the terror demon to accomplish since she's finally learning how to handle herself in the Fade.

She's forced Jowly into a corner, giving him no choice but to find some poor fool to possess so he could attack her in the physical realm, his demon-y pride now in jeopardy.

Which begs the question-was it possible for terror demons to have pride? Was there some kind of club or organization they went to if they had a demon-y identity crisis? She can just picture Jowly there, surrounded by other demons, maybe even Horny, the self-assured, pompous desire demon (aptly named for the large horns on her head and not for far more obvious reasons, though Meryn loves the double entendre) that Jowly sometimes brings with him, crying over failed possession attempts and broken dreams.

An ominous scuffle much closer behind her then she would like startles Tadwinks- who's wrapped around her shoulder-and snaps Meryn back to the present from her persistent daydreams.

That's right. She's running for her life.

Again.

She assumed she'd reached her quota of life threatening adventures when she destroyed Corypheus nearly a year ago, but apparently not.

In retrospect, allowing her curiosity to get the better of her and touch yet another magical object of unknown origin was not her best idea. Meryn couldn't help herself-the red lyrium Eluvian was so shiny and beautiful in a creepy, dark portal kind of way, which was proven true when the Anchor, seemingly with a will of its own, made contact with the Eluvian's surface and she fell through to the Crossroads, sealing both herself and Tadwinks away from her companions. But this place isn't like the other parts of the In-Between she's ventured into.

Not that she spent a lot of time in the Crossroads of course. Morrigan was rather explicit in her instructions to the Inquisitor in regards to her Eluvian-

"Tis simple Inquisitor. DO NOT TOUCH IT."

"Ever?"

"No."

That particular mandate didn't last the day. In Meryn's defense, the witch's Eluvian is _her_ heritage, and the Well of Sorrows did say it was okay-that's what she told herself anyway. At the time the voices were difficult to distinguish, and probability told her at least one was bound to agree with her and her touch-the-magic-mirror-and-play-in-the-lost-realm-of-her-ancestors philosophy.

Lost realm of her ancestors indeed. Where in the great Beyond was she? It seems the same...

The monochromatic color scheme-light grays, dark grays, some blacks thrown in as accents-that she's come to associate with the Crossroads is the same. The strange mist rising from the broken cobblestone pathway she is running down-also similar. Then, she notices it. The _feel_ of the place.

The In-Between normally feels stagnant. Dead. But here it feels like the forest, like its stirring. The end of every winter is alike; the forest slowly coming alive after a long hibernation. Animals wake up, lumbering out of their caves and hovels, plants sprout new leaves, blossoming towards the sun. The Crossroads feels like that-like some great Beast is waking from a deep sleep, falling quickly off a precipice into consciousness.

Meryn did that once. (Though it may have been more then once. Who can tell?) Not the falling out of consciousness part but the falling off a precipice bit. In her defense, she's usually preoccupied with reading her atlas and doesn't notice a cliff's edge until she's right on top of-and sometimes over-it. The one time the cliff dive was actually intentional was entirely the dragon's fault. She, (the dragon), had the gall to fly off with Syl still embedded in her rear scales and jumping off the cliff onto the blasted thing was the timeliest way for Meryn to retrieve her blade and save herself from the tongue lashing Dagna would have given her for losing a dagger. Again.

She can see the little differences now, how the stones beneath her pounding feet faintly flicker to actual colors-pale blues, greens, and violets-before softly fading back to grey. The air feels crisper, fresher in her lungs, allowing her to move even more quickly then she usually does without tiring. The lifeless, cyclical trees seem to be sprouting buds, but she is sprinting to fast to stop and confirm it.

She checks over her shoulder for any signs of Jowly. He was never very subtle in her dreams and she's amazed he hasn't roared _Submit_! in that terrifying scream of his or taunted her with her worst fears but Meryn doesn't see any sign of him-other than an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Even that could have been caused by something else. Blackwall did make eggs that morning in camp. She tried to tell him eggs should _not_ be green, but he insisted it was a family recipe and promptly shut her up by shoveling slices of ham on her plate as well.

Tadwinks trills softly in her ear to bring her back to the present, and she refocuses on the task at hand-finding a way out. Since the Anchor got her into this mess, she hopes it can open another Eluvian and get her back to the Inquisition. The complete and utter _lack_ of Eluvians just proves to her she is not in the Crossroads or any other kind of familiar territory.

The Crossroads should be riddled with the old mirrors, most dark and broken or twisted by the Taint, but Meryn doesn't see any in this new realm. Just the rainbow road she's scrambling down, the forest of Spiraled-Almost-Living-But-Kind-Of-Dead trees and the ever present, ground clinging mist. Almost as if it senses her annoyance (and desperation though she's loathe to admit it) the fog opens up on the path before her, revealing the most elaborate and ornate Eluvian she's ever seen.

The mirror is three times her height, magnificent obsidian with inlays of gilded silver. Vines and leaves are etched into the filigree, twining from the base up both sides until they connect at the top of the glass. The Eluvian is extraordinary, save the glass itself, which is cracked and warped so badly the mirror is incapable of reflecting light. A asymmetrical sliver is missing from the very center, and she is about to touch it, curious-when the odd feeling in her stomach flares and she can feel a gaze burning into her back.

Jowly.

Tired of running, relieved the queasy feeling isn't from Blackwall's cooking, and ready to show the demon exactly what makes Meryn Lavellan a living legend, she calls out, not bothering to turn around.

"Just so you know, we're not in the Fade anymore, and if you come near me again I _will_ kill you," Self-assured with just the right amount of menace she notes happily. Bull would be proud, having deemed himself her tutor in griefing her adversaries because threatening to have an Avvar warlord throw goats at your enemy is not intimidating. At all, apparently.

A sharp intake of breath is not what the Inquisitor is expecting, or the soft chuckle, and cursing her troublesome curiosity she turns-

-and her heart stops.

"...Solas?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: Six months prior, Meryn has a problem at Skyhold and a long talk with Josephine.
> 
> Quotables: "Never. It's what he wants. A blatant power move if I ever saw one."


	2. Then-Bloomingtide

**_Six Months Earlier..._**

Very little managed to surprise Meryn Levellan anymore.

A lanticore stampede? Typical Thursday. A group of Carta thugs dressed in Orlesian finery and dancing the Remigold? Three times in the last month. But this-

-this was _remarkable_.

"That's what your face really looks like?"

"Hardly...not even remotely..." Dorian stammers. "Of all the things that over eager mind of yours thinks about over the course of a day and _this_ is what you worry about?!" he asks exaggeratedly gesturing to his Fade reflection, a perfect mirror image save for the absence of his gloriously well-manicured mustache.

She sniggers.

"You're supposed to be here learning to defend yourself from demons and instead you spend your time thinking about absolutely dreadful make-overs," he says the stress at the appalling doppelganger clearly evident in the timbre of his voice.

"That's it then. You're an abomination. You must be. Possessed already."

She bursts out laughing, clapping him on the shoulder.

"You look rather dashing actually. 'Cept that pig snout," she points and the Fade twists itself to accommodate the new dream, a quaint, pink hued, up turned nose appearing on his reflection's face in a cloud of smoke and small popping sound.

"And duck feet-" POP!

"Oh no no- qunari horns." A wince. POP! She swears he's started whimpering softly.

"Wait, wait, wait- Varric's chest hair!" POP!! With each new whimsical POP! the reflection alters and the corporeal Dorian's face flashes from a look of pain to unbelief and back again. She decides to put him out of his misery.

"Nevermind all that." POP!

Everything returns to normal-mustache included. He visibly lets out a sigh of relief.

"A paisley print set of mage's robes-" the look of horror would keep her gleeful for years to come, and she goes in the for kill, "-in puce."

POP!

"Oh no you don't you chore of a woman, that is quite enough," the mage says, grabbing her arm and dragging her away towards another part of her dream, until the baneful popping sound disappears. He is practically shaking, and Meryn can almost hear the loud pounding of his heart from seeing his worst nightmares come to life.

"I rather enjoy the Fade," she decides, glancing sidelong at her companion as they amble through a new dream scape; this one a large sunlit meadow full of soft grasses and wildflowers running the length of the valley, only ending at the tree line where she sees a large black wolfy thing, trotting lazily along. She sees a crumbling elvhen ruin near the horizon, the rubble slowly being reclaimed by the vibrant plant life surrounding it. A slight breeze picks up, carrying the scent of cinnamon and honeysuckle, and she can't help but be amazed at everything the Fade is capable of; an entire world right in front of her she was unaware of simply because it was only accessible while she was unconscious.

Until recently that is.

She'd fall asleep in her rooms at Skyhold as she had a thousand times before, then wake up inside her memories, fully aware and able to interact with them, perfectly recalling her actions when she woke. She'd even tried to manipulate dream scapes of others as she'd seen _him_ do in their journeys together, but she was unsuccessful. A curious yet disturbing development because the heart of the matter was simple. Only mages are aware in the Fade and can manipulate it's energies.

And Meryn is definitely _not_ a mage.

The beauty of the new dream scape is not lost on Dorian either.

"Where is this place?"

"Not entirely sure. My father and I found it when I was a child before I joined my cla-"

An oddly recognizable trilling bark is her only warning before a blur slams into Dorian, startling her and knocking the mage off balance. It darts in between his legs and veers around his ankles in a frenzied lope, yipping and growling. He tries to avoid it, shuffling his feet fruitlessly as he trips and falls.

 She swears she hears him mutter "Maferath's beard, not _again_ ," as he collapses heavily into a heap, but the sound is drowned out by her own gleeful squeal-

"Tadwinks!" The little fox yammers happily at her, eyes blinking owlishly from his position atop Dorian's prostrate body. Dorian glowers at him, huffing in displeasure as the Fennec struts across his chest, ever the triumphant conqueror.

"And what brought your little beastie here?" he questions grumpily.

"He's not a beastie!" she declares, opening her arms for him to jump into, chortling softly as the small animal uses Dorian's head as a springboard to jump from; almost as if he understands the insult against his person.

"I've always thought he'd love to play here, "she says, hugging him tightly to her chest.

Tadwinks' reflection is perfect-brown eyes in a small intelligent face framed by a pair of enormous but adorable pointed ears. The dappled, sandy color of his fur is just right-as luxurious and soft to the touch as it's realistic counterpart. Even his bushy tail is accurate-nearly the size of the rest of his body with rings of darker chestnut fur ending in an uneven, slightly charred black tip.

Simple, delectable, and absolutely loveable.

Meryn lets him climb onto her shoulder, curling his tail around her neck in his usual spot and moves to help Dorian to his feet, only to find he's managed it (rather indignantly) on his own.

"How many times is that now?" she snickers, unable to help herself.

"Modern mathematics has not devised a number high enough," he huffs in annoyance.

"There's a simple solution," she taunts.  "You could just do it-works every time."

"Never. It's what he wants. A blatant power move if I ever saw one."

Tadwinks trills happily, alternating between nuzzling her neck and fixing a beady glare on Dorian.

"So even if it makes your life easier, you won't so you can win a battle of wills...with an animal..."she trails off, trying to appear nonchalant instead of reveling in his annoyance. Which is what she's really doing.

Enthusiastically with _flare_.

She points to the little creature who is now the picture of innocence, yawning sleepily.

"Unbelievable," the mage mumbles, upper lip twitching slightly in distaste. "But no. I refuse. On principle."

"Just do it."

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Rub his belly!" A yip of approval.

"Why? Solas never did and the infernal creature never tortured him like he does me." She winces, surprised by his use of a casual, insult free reference to her former "associate" instead of his usual fervid tirades, but the mage does not notice.

Yup- she's ignoring it. Ignoring is good.

"Solas never 'accidentally' set Tadwinks' tail on fire," she shoots back.

"He started it! It wouldn't have happened if the beast refrained from stealing from me." She raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Really? What exactly? You never mentioned anything before," she watches in fascination as the perpetually unflappable mage's face reddens.

"That is neither here nor there. Stop changing the subject." She stores the information away for later, already plotting potential uses for it. "Fine." He seems appeased at the truce, but refocuses on the task at hand. "Are you ready?"

"For you to rub Taddy's belly? Of course. Just say where and when," she answers cheekily, scratching the fox's chin. She can hear him dozing softly in her ear.

"Inquisitor be serious please. This is important. You have to be prepared for demons even in your dreams-especially there," he scolds earnestly. "They can appear at any moment, expected or not."

"If I were a mage maybe," she scoffs. "But since I haven't been one for oh-my entire life- everyone should just relax."

"Truly? Then that horrendous nightmare we were in before was what? Besides me aging a hundred years."

"My pledge of undying affection should you ever choose to shave," she teases, expecting an answering smile in return but his face is suddenly serious.

Deadly serious.

 "Did you not notice?" Meryn turns to him, thrown at his sudden change in demeanor. "Dorian?" she questions.

"Where is it?" he cuts her off, grabbing her arm, unsettling her further. The Fade begins to reflect her alarm, chasing the sun away and replacing it with an ominous bunching of dark clouds. The breeze turns violent, biting through her clothes, chilling her.

"Dorian," she starts again, trying to pull her arm away roughly, but the vice on her arm only tightens.

"Foolish girl. Where is it?" he asks, his voice dropping into a lower register and losing the Tevene flourish. _This is bad,_ she thinks with trepidation. _Very bad._

"Or, not Dorian. That works too," she says letting out a panicked chuckle. As if on cue the incoherent burble and rumble of the Well picks up in her head, the voices of her ancestors sensitive to the danger and attempting to guide her, but they remain frustratingly indecipherable. Thousands of years of invaluable magical and cultural knowledge from her immortal fore bearers, and it's completely and utterly _useless_ when she needs it.  _Marvelous_.

She's always had an appreciation for irony, _especially_ at the least appropriate moments.

Tadwinks, dozing lightly on Meryn's shoulder, rouses as he senses her disquiet. She reaches past him for the blades practically adhered to her back with her free hand, but it touches nothing. Not-Dorian flashes a wicked, overlarge smile that instead of looking reassuring makes him seem more dreadful and menacing. "Where is it? Tell me now before I have to force myself in you," he says utterly calm, as if he's discussing the weather or new drapery and not taking over her body. "I've never been partial to elves. It gets so cramped inside."

"Eh?!" she eloquently exclaims, as she watches what she thought was a dear friend morph and change in front of her eyes; terrified at being defenseless on one hand yet at the same time thoroughly insulted that she, the legendary Meryn Levellan- the blighted _Herald of Andraste_ \- is anything but an optimal candidate for demon possession.

Not-Dorian's neck elongates, the bones contorting painfully at such an unnatural angle she's surprised his head doesn't snap off. The hand holding her arm explodes outward from a humanly proportioned appendage to twice it's former size, skin hardening into a chitinous shell that seems very durable but is fortuitous for Meryn, the extra space allowing her to slip free and back away.

The creature's body is pulled and stretched past it's limitations, and when it finishes, it's standing a full two lengths higher then before, spindly and emaciated; every bone and ridge of it's skeleton clearly defined. It's face is no longer Dorian's, the bottom jaw hangs somewhere around it's chest, and when it speaks again, it's jowls quiver, unleashing a scream that curdles her blood.

A terror demon. _Delightful._

Cursing whatever Creator she's offended today (she's betting on Mythal since she's the only one who's actually, well, alive)that she was caught unaware-yet again-by a demon, she turns and flees, Tadwinks clinging to her shoulder. She tries to come up with a plan that doesn't include curling into the fetal position and hoping for a qunari sized flesh prison to suddenly appear, but her thoughts scatter across her mind as she panics, the endless chatter of the Well distracting.   She doesn't make it very far before a pool of toxic green envelopes her feet and skeletal arms find purchase on the surface, beginning to claw their way out. She skips backward, Tadwinks falling to the ground, hissing.

"What do you want?" she yells, stalling for time, mind desperately empty. She hears it's cold voice in her head "WHERE. IS. IT." before it's arms grab her ankles and drags her back towards the pool of light, the small fox dancing around it's edges, red eyes flashing as he howls. "SUBMIT." She kicks and screams as it drags her backwards, thoughts completely scrambled until a long mournful howl echoes across the valley, shooting an unexpected but familiar electricity through her veins, culling through her anxiety to allow her to finally hear the Well with clarity.

_This is a dream_...

She latches onto this last thought, repeating it as a mantra, over and over, as the monster pulls her feet first into the pool and it's waiting maw.

_It's a dream!_ Her eyes slam open as she attempts to force her will onto the Fade as effortlessly as she's seen Solas do it, but her surroundings stubbornly refuse to change. She tries to focus even as she feels the demon devour one of her legs, the pain searing through her body, it's abhorrent voice in her head gluttonous as he drinks in her blood, savoring the magic in it. She may not have been born a mage, but she is in possession of a magical mark of unknown origins, with a rather unexplored skill set- so she calls on it, praying it can save her once again.

Her hand responds, blazing into a brilliant green, the Anchor forming a blade of energy around her fist. She slashes out at the fallen spirit, power flaring through knife-

-before she wakes up surrounded by shards of glass and debris back in her bed in Skyhold with Tadwinks' jaws sunk into her thigh. The magic of the Anchor is seething, not yet quiet, flickering in and out of the form of the Fade knife before dispersing. She blinks, scarcely believing she's actually awake and still has all of her bits attached to the rest of her. She glances at the chaos around her room, cringing at the recently repaired and even more recently broken stained glass windows.

  _J_ _osephine's going to kill me..._

Ignoring the faint trails of smoke and the mild smell of burning papers floating in the air, she turns to the little fox gnawing on her thigh.

"You don't think anyone would have noticed anything right?"

He drops her leg abruptly to slap her in the face with his tail.

_Excellent_ , she muses darkly, picking fox fur out of her teeth.

__________________________________________

 

"Utterly irresponsible!"

Meryn winces, seeking refuge in the back of her chair. Anything to put some space between her and her opponent-the furious whirlwind that was Josephine Montilyet.

"To let it progress to this magnitude without even seeking our advice is...is just..." Josephine's tirade halts for a moment, probably seeking a more diplomatic way to say "just plain stupid", and settling on-

"Unacceptable!"

Meryn understands her advisers are often upset with her somewhat... _lackadaisical_?... attitude towards personal safety, but she assumes they wouldn't be surprised by the kind of trouble she (inadvertently) brings on herself.

There was the incident with the dog at the Orlesian playhouse...her favorite game of Lets Poke the Bear...and who could forget the first time she went to the rookery after she stopped coloring her hair. She's positive the stable boy hasn't.

She's the Inquisitor after all. Old magic, false gods, dragons-she's faced them all with little more then smile and a well placed back stab. Meryn smiles to herself, remembering when a smile and a well placed back stab was _all_ she had (laundry day!). The Templar order is _definitely_ not as chaste and naive as Cullen's blushes and stammering makes it seem.

But the amount of shock and dismay Josephine is displaying is more then even Meryn was expecting. It makes her curious what else Josephine is worried about and is reprimanding her for.

It more then likely had something to do with her decorum for whatever stodgy human noble was dining with them for the evening; though lately Skyhold's guests had been stodgy human nobles without a love of the finer things, specifically the bathhouse-just thinking about it makes her cringe rather spastically in her chair.

Luckily Josephine doesn't notice.

One lord from the bannorn had been particularly pungent, smelling suspiciously like old cheeses- she'd barely been able to hold down her salmon (not that she is particularly fond of salmon but still). She was ready to call an early end to that evening but Josephine informed her of an important tradition the Lord of Cheeses always adhered too when visiting and would be greatly offended if not performed. She ended up spending the night dancing with the man, had to burn her lovely dress afterward because she couldn't get the smell of Orlesian Pont l'Eveque out of it, and then needed Adan to lance a bunion for her.

The professional face he maintained during the procedure gave the Inquisitor a new respect for the man and his chosen profession.          

The Inquisition's guests were not the only things different lately. Little oddities kept occurring whether "gifts" of exotic foods that tasted strangely like wood chips or the rather absurd and unnecessary judgments she had to preside over (Lady Buchard still sent her letters calling for that poor steward's execution even though there was absolutely no evidence he spilled wine on her tapestry).

She's sure Josephine has noticed the irregularities and is meaning to scold her for them. (Though in her defense the tapestry was revolting, the red wine giving it a battle-scared, barbaric feel which Meryn saw as a vast improvement.)

Seeing the look of hurt and worry on Josephine's face makes most of her feel guilty, while the unscrupulous part hopes that if enough guilt shows on her face maybe Josie will let her off easy and _not_ lecture her all day.

But it's not just Josephine she realizes. All of her companions are concerned by her lack of control of the Anchor and the increasingly frequent nights spent fighting off demon possession. Some furiously so-Tadwinks included.

Josephine finally hits her stride mid lecture, and the Inquisitor allows her mind to wander, knowing the Antivan won't even notice her inattention as long as she keeps the guilty look of contrition on her face and nods occasionally.          

_Knowing further attempts at sleeping are obviously dashed after waking from the nightmare, she stretches uncomfortably, listening to the sounds of her joints righting and correcting themselves; the whimsical POP! an alarming reminder of yet another involuntary misadventure.  
_

_Tadwinks, normally an indiscernible bundle of energy- licking her face, squirming in her arms or trilling playfully at her first thing in the morning- is aloof, eyeing her warily from the corner of her bed._

_Thanks for the save young one," Meryn whispers to him, being sure to reach her unmarked hand in his direction, it's companion not yet quiescent from the burst of magic running through it. He sniffs peevishly at the offering; ears flat against his skull and brown eyes alight with blatant disapproval._

_Don't look at me like that. I'm fine. It's just a dream."  
_

_A quaint snort._

_"What? It's true. If anyone should be mad it's me. You had to have gotten a pound of flesh this time. Look at my thigh!" she exclaims, pointing to the gaping hole in her sleeping trousers and the angry red bite mark. "Last time you just nibbled a bit. Did I forget to feed you again?"_

_He stands up imperiously, nearly slapping her again with his bushy tail, then promptly ignores her and hops off the bed, claws clicking softly against the wood as he makes to leave, the picture of wounded pride. Meryn assumes he's trying to say "I save your life and you repay me by being offended how I do it."_

_But she can't be sure. It's a lot for a fox to emote after all._

_"Of all the...fine! I'll talk to the others. Happy?" she concedes. He glances back at her over his shoulder, ears perking forward, and then scurries carefully around the shards of glass back to her, yipping sweetly as he hops onto the bed and into her arms. One companion appeased, so many to go._

_Breakfast is next._

_Meryn wonders if wishing food poisoning on everyone in Skyhold makes her a terrible person._

_Not the lethal kind of course, but just enough so she can sneak quietly and undisturbed to the table while everyone else is in line for a privy and unable to ask any awkward questions about her disheveled silver hair or the large bags under her violet eyes-the latter even more prominent without Mythal's valleslin twining underneath she's noticed.  
_

_She'd asked Tadwinks his opinion-he hastily hid under the bed-so the Inquisitor could only imagine how she'd appear to an actual person, and as she enters the great hall carrying the petite fox, it's clear the Creators ignored her prayers for a swift and debilitating illness.  
_

_Typical.  
_

_Nearly all of her companions are present, save Vivienne who had business in Orlais, Iron Bull, presumably sleeping off the previous night's debaucheries, and Cole, who probably wasn't far off from the smell of yet more burning turnips._

_She places Tadwinks down on a bench, grabbing an apple and some biscuits for herself and an assortment of fruits and berries for the fennec, laying them in front of him, watching fondly as he grabs them and scampers off to find privacy. Joining her friends at the table she plunks herself down with a heavy sigh._

_So," Meryn says taking a giant bite of her apple. "Anything new and exciting on the agenda? I need to stab something." She finishes, mouth full, so it comes out sounding like "Mythess epth e shoopuf?"_

Yup. Meant to do that. Definitely _._

_She swallows roughly and tries again. "Morning!" she says brightly, pleased by her success._

_Varric smiles, clearing his throat and turning to her from his conversation with Cullen. "Morning Scribbles. How'd you sleep?" She raises a black eyebrow in suspicion, but the dwarf is the picture of innocence, cocky smile giving her no indication if he is aware of the previous night's "excitement"._

_"Perfect. Dreamt about Dorian." The mage in question perks up his name, eyebrow cocked with a familiar question in his eyes. She's happy to notice that his jaw is in it's proper place.  
_

_"Sublime, as always," she answers to his unspoken query. "Felt like my leg was going to fall off."  
_

_"Only the best for you my dear," he replies with a self-satisfied smirk, not noticing her dark humor.  
_

_"There was this thing with your fingers," she says, regaling him with mock tales of his prowess until she hears the babble of conversation pick up again, everyone settling back down, idly munching on fruits or cheeses. Blackwall and Sera at the opposite end of the table grab Dorian's attention and her eyes are drawn as they always are to the unused door of the rotunda.  
_

_The residents of Skyhold defer to other doors to access the library, leaving the painted walls and her memories alone, gathering dust. Her hand unconsciously reaches for her necklace, fingers gently stroking the warm glass phial, reminding Meryn of the one who gave it to her, a physical assurance that he_ was _real and what they had, however fleetingly, was real. The shooting pain in her chest is nothing new after months of his absence, becoming a continual hum that keeps time to the ever present thrum of the Anchor.  
_

_She's practically a metronome.  
_

_The thought makes her giggle internally, and she allows herself to picture exactly what a walking, talking metronome would look like (lots of wobbling and pointy bits) when Sera sinks down next to her and gives her a rough shove._

_"Oh right so we just ignorin' how miss elfy elf went all glowy and shite yestiday or what?" she asks raising her voice loudly. "What's with them bags under those purplers ye-"_           

"...isitor?"

She nods agreeably as Josephine's voice cuts through her reverie. "Excellent. I'll tell the baron you are amenable to his proposal."

"Errr..."

"Your wit remains intact while your attention wanders. Extraordinary."

Busted.

"Do you truly believe the 'smile and nod' you're so fond of actually works Inquisitor?" Josephine reprimands. "Or is subtly so far beyond you that you failed to notice the quality of the guests recently assigned to dine next to you?" she asks, a conspiratorial smile on her face.

Enlightenment dawns on Meryn, the pieces falling into place.

The daydreaming during council meetings, inattentiveness she'd assumed went unnoticed while Josephine tries to educate her on politics, neglecting to inform her friends that she was practically helpless while being stalked by demons in her dreams, and a myriad of little rude things Meryn's positive she's capable of even if she can't remember-have come back to haunt her.  She's finally offended the perpetually composed, ever polite, endlessly patient diplomat of the Inquisition.

And she'd never noticed.

The awkward dances, uncomfortable dinners, the unsavory 'new' foods, the sodding _Lord of Cheeses_! _-_ it all traces back to a righteously slighted Josephine. Sera may be the one to excel at pranks and tomfoolery, but Josephine transforms it into a dazzling art form.

So brilliant. So simple. So _utterly humiliating_.

She has to end it before Josephine really does marry her off while she is daydreaming about riding undead unicorns. And that means groveling. Lots of it.

She loathes groveling.

"I'm so sorry Josie," Meryn starts, the slight softening of Josephine's face giving her hope that she may, just this once, finally be able to talk herself _out_ of something as opposed to the usual _in_ to something.                

"I know how hard you work for the Inquisition and to help me, and I should be polite enough to pay attention while you ramble about some stranger's dairy allergy,"

"Err..."

She never said she was any _good_ at groveling.

If groveling doesn't work, try bargaining-a wise Antivan told her in one of the help sessions she actually remembers. (Then again the wise Antivan didn't have a patented Antivan death glare bearing down on her. Meryn hopes bargaining works because if Josephine keeps staring at her that way much longer she knows she'll agree to anything to make it right-including adopting that sadistic three legged dog from the playhouse.)

"What do you want me to do?"

"I've spoken with Varric and he may know of a tutor who can assist you-and you _will_ address this problem and learn to control your magic." She knows she should stick to her strengths-smiling and nodding-but her mouth rambles on without her.

"But, I don't-" the ambassador holds up her hand, effectively silencing the elf.

"We both know that is untrue. Deceiving yourself will only hinder the process and require even more repairs in your quarters. Which the Inquisition can ill afford to fix.   _Again_." Meryn winces, knowing full well she deserves the reprimand. Waking up screaming with the Fade knife pulsing after knocking out all of her windows was beginning to be a bother-to everyone it seems.

"Now go away," she says gesturing dismissively towards the door with her hand. "Leliana wants to see you-something to do with the missive you sent to the Dalish-and we will discuss your scuffle at the playhouse at a later date."

Meryn stands from her chair, thoroughly abashed at the dismissal, and apprehensive about meeting Leliana. If her suspicions about the looted elvhen ruins are correct...                

She is about to open the door when a call from Josephine stills her hand on the knob. She turns, trying to keep her face in some semblance of a resigned expression to avoid offending the ambassador further, but gritting her teeth, because she knew the escape was too easy. The killing blow is on its way.

Josephine is toying with her like a cat plays with a mouse-if the mouse already has two broken legs and is blind in one eye.

"Ah yes. Lord Berris was so enchanted with you during his last visit that he will be returning for the Satinalia festivities. He has requested you save a dance for him." Jaw dropping in utter disbelief-and maybe a little bit of respect (but just a little)-Meryn turns to leave, trying to preserve what dignity she has left after getting played like a lute.

The Lord of Cheeses was coming back.

Josephine was a diabolical _genius._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: Meryn braves the rookery to receive a report of strange activity from Leliana.
> 
> Quotables: "I didn't want a repeat of the last time. Blackwall tells me the stable boy can't even look at a bird anymore without flinching."


	3. Then-Bloomingtide

Baron Plucky is feeling self-righteous today. 

The raven is alert, feathers fluffed out to make him appear intimidating and more voluminous, squawking resentfully to anyone who walks by, steadfastly refusing to relinquish his perch. 

It makes the Spymaster wonder what the bird is hiding. 

She's made repeated attempts to coax him out since his roost is _very_ close to the entrance of the rookery (one beaking and countless eye gouging attempts are sufficient for one day) but he stalwartly remains. Leliana approaches her favorite courier slowly, speaking tenderly in placid tones. 

His intelligent black eyes recognize her but his feathers remain ruffled and he does not move. Appreciating his devotion, she draws a sprig of berries from her pocket, displaying it squarely the center of her palm. Sentry duty abandoned in the wake of the small treat, the cantankerous bird hops onto her shoulder and plucks the undersized branch from her palm. 

"Let's see what caused all the fuss shall we?" she asks, stroking his head, interested to learn what the bird stole this time. 

Dagger...dagger...-these she pulls out and carefully tosses to the floor-some silver baubles...Varric's pocket watch (missing the past month)...a ring bearing the Charger's insignia...and a smattering of leaves and twigs. Leliana puts her hands on her hips, confused. 

"You've had these for awhile now silly bird," she mutters, observing the frenetic way the Baron watches his nest, convinced he's concealing something. She reaches into the nest, shuffling everything aside, brushing past the barrier of shrubbery, drawing out a thin silver tin slightly larger then the palm of her hand. 

The raven caws in disdain but she croons to him softly, retreating to her desk with the circular tin in hand. She opens it cautiously, expecting trinkets or various odds and ends, but finds neither. 

The tin contains an assortment of phials, ranging in size-each containing a different colored liquid-as well as an angular pair of scissors, and a petite tortoiseshell comb. She draws the phials out one by one, raising them up to catch the light through the windows, captivated.

The green and purple phials have their labels ripped off while the labels of the white and brown are mostly illegible. On the white she can only make out one word-"wax"-and on the final one, the phrase "Mr. Natty Frank's Beard Elixir". 

Beard Elixir... 

The collection clicks in her mind, the scissors, comb and concoctions telling Leliana _exactly_ who the owner is-and just how much trouble Baron Plucky will be in if exposed. 

"Plucky you nasty thing-where did you get this?" she scolds the bird who stubbornly refuses to look abashed. She replaces the lid, about to wave it at his beak and demand he return it when she senses someone watching her. 

She turns slowly, vigilant, but relaxes when she sees Cole's large floppy hat in the stairwell outside the rookery. She stands to place the Baron in the bird cage next to her desk, leaving the stolen tin on top, and calls out. 

"You may enter Inquisitor. Baron Plucky is occupied at the moment." 

The hat perks up a little bit as Meryn raises her head, pointed elvhen ears appearing first, tired eyes next, the rest of her body following, an ungainly flailing of limbs as her body attempts to keep up with flurry of commands from her mind. She stumbles up the stairs, toe catching on the top step, causing Cole's extravagant headwear to nearly fall off her head; she rights it quickly, tramping it down roughly on her head, obscuring her hair, violet warily scanning the room. 

Leliana hides the smile she always gets at the Inquisitor's unwitting antics, instinctively perusing the younger woman instead, sizing her up, looking for any weaknesses or discrepancies. Leliana may no longer be a bard, but old habits are difficult to unlearn, and as Spymaster of the Inquisition, Leliana can ill afford too. 

The Inquisitor seems exhausted-not just physically if the circles under her eyes are any indication-but mentally as well. Her usual infectious vibrancy is muted, as if all the color and life has been drained out of her, leaving only a perverted serenity. 

And it's Meryn's stillness which troubles Leliana the most. 

Meryn's abundant spirit turns her into a coiled spring-a quick retort or a self-depreciating joke is never further than a breath away. As if her mind is trying to expel her superfluous energy she is always in motion-generally without realizing it-bouncing a leg up and down in council meetings, gesturing flamboyantly with her hands as she speaks, fingers tapping out a melody on her thigh while she pretends to listen to Josephine. 

(Leliana is positive the latter finally managed to get the Inquisitor a scolding from the ambassador if the gossip from the library is to be believed). 

Leliana has seen only two legitimate outlets for the Inquisitor's exuberance. The first is battle, where the Inquisitor, mind and body actually acting in unison, moves nearly faster then the eye can see, flitting in and out of the field, decimating her opponents with a clinical efficiency. 

The second was Solas. 

Meryn was another being around the older elf-calm, more tranquil-as if his mere presence could pacify the flood inside of her, leaving Meryn a more self-assured and honest version of herself. But it was a natural quietude and the only time Leliana has seen the Inquisitor truly at peace and content. 

To see her like this, eerily still-no leg shuffling, finger tapping or gestures of any kind-outside of combat and without the renegade apostate is the most disturbing of all. 

She also seems on the verge of a paroxysm, eyes darting around the rookery. 

"You are safe Inquisitor," Leliana repeats, pointing over her shoulder to the raven's pen. "Baron Plucky is otherwise engaged," drawing attention to the bird as he tries to swallow the twig his berries were on. 

Lady Lavellan finally relaxes, fingers fiddling with the phial of veilfire she wears around her neck. 

"Excellent. Thank you for that Leliana. Though I did come prepared this time," she says humbly, waving to the overlarge hat that's threatening to overwhelm her. "I didn't want a repeat of the last time. Blackwall tells me the stable boy can't even look at a bird anymore without flinching." 

"Truly?" 

"Yes," she nods vigorously. "It got especially awkward at mealtimes-the worst when Lady Selys was visiting," Leliana must have looked confused because the Inquisitor rushes to clarify. 

"The one with the brown hair and the ribbon hat? Has an aversion to red meat?" The former bard nods in recognition. 

"The cooks only made fowl for a week?" 

Ah yes. Leliana recalls the evening clearly now. 

"The stable boy practically had a fit, ended up knocking over a steward who dropped the wine decanter on Lady Selys' husband and then _he_ choked on the main course and passed out face first in the potatoes," she pauses, contemplative. "He wasn't even supposed to be dining with us that night, he was just on his way to the gardens and then-" instead of completing her thought, she pantomimes it, arms thrashing wildly, giving Leliana a very clear (and unnecessary) picture of the event. 

"Then I'm sure everyone-Josephine included-is grateful to you for remembering and preventing another diplomatic incident." She chooses to gloss over the Inquisitor's need to speak with her hands, instead noticing the suspicious absence of the Meryn's shadow. 

"And where is young Tadwinks?" 

"Dorian," Meryn replies, pointing over her shoulder at the library below as if the one word answer is the only explanation necessary. In this case it is; the rivalry between the Fennec and the mage having gained nearly as much notoriety as the Herald herself. 

"I think he's up to something," she continues, reaching in her pocket and pulling out a bright silver fork, clearly snatched from the great hall. "He's never been partial to silver before-" Baron Plucky starts screeching and strutting around his cage, pressing his beak through the bars, eyes hypnotically locked on the utensil. 

"One of Plucky's trinkets then," Leliana says, pocketing the fork, shooting a chiding look at the bird who is preoccupied with the cage's lock, fidgeting with it, rubbing his beak across the latch. 

"Josephine said you wanted to see me?" Meryn changes the subject, and as Leliana turns back in her direction she imagines she sees a glimpse of a blackened slip of fur disappear into the darkness under one of the tables, but on second glance she cannot be sure. 

"Indeed. We've received a runner about the letter you sent to the Dalish in the Exalted Plains," she says, giving her head and eyes a quick shake to clear them. 

"And what did it say exactly? Any strange activity in the ruins?" 

"Yes. It is the same as before. Whoever is investigating the ruins is sending in small expedition teams. They're scouring the ruins thoroughly but remaining respectful to an extent- an unusual behavior for looters," she pauses, gathering her thoughts. "It leads me to believe they are looking for something specific, and are much more organized and well supplied than we originally thought." 

Meryn muses over this, biting her lower lip. Knowing she is about to give the Inquisitor yet more bad news, and dreading it, Leliana tries to keep her face even and emotionless. 

"There's more. The message-it was not written by the Keeper," violet widens, but Leliana pushes forward. "Or the First. The composer identified himself as the _hahren_ , and refused to elaborate further unless it was in person," she pauses now, glancing at the Inquisitor's face, finding her face hard, expression closed. "His reticence suggests the clan's leadership is either indisposed, or more likely-considering the other recent activity in the area-they were abducted." 

Leliana has disclosed a host of bad reports and discouraging intelligence to the Inquisitor, and she can always tell how a mission will end based on Meryn's reactions. 

When Leliana told her of the danger to Clan Lavellan the Herald's eyes hardened with determination and the might of the Inquisition was brought to bear in the Free Marches, bringing an entire city to heel-elves now govern in Wycome. 

Leliana told her of a message from Divine Justinia and violet had gone soft in compassion, normal rambling replaced with a steely eloquence, causing Leliana to actually spare the life of a potential threat. Meryn saved some of the Spymaster's dwindling humanity, earning something only one other person in Thedas possessed- Leliana's complete trust. 

The only time the elf was indecipherable was when Leliana informed her that for all of the former bard's secrets and trickery she was unable to locate Solas- that time Meryn was deathly still, eyes widening, releasing an infinitesimal sigh before turning on her heel and leaving without a word. 

She vanished for a week. 

No one could find her, while all tried- Tadwinks, Morrigan's magic, the remains of the qunari's contacts-but nothing worked. Skyhold was in a panic until she simply reappeared as easily as she'd left, repentant smile on her face (not because she'd disappeared and worried everyone) but because she'd knocked a banner down from the ramparts while she was scaling the outer wall.   They'd asked her why, to which she simply replied that it made for a grander entrance, and everyone had taken the joke and accompanying smile to mean that things were back to normal even if they were clearly not. 

If Leliana was not a master at reading others she would have believed too, but it was _not_ a coincidence the Inquisitor's nightmares and the fluctuations of the Anchor started occurring shortly thereafter. 

But with the news that the leaders of her people, the caretakers of her culture, are possibly disappearing Leliana knows the mission will occur like the one in Wycome- with all of the righteous fury of the Inquisition thrown at it. 

"Inqui-?" 

"When did the message arrive?" Meryn interrupts, and Leliana watches as the elf slips into the skin of "Inquisitor", a resolute gleam in her eye. 

"Shortly before your meeting with Josephine." 

"I'll go as a forward party and meet with the remaining Dalish in the Exalted Plains-" Leliana stops her, feeling it her duty as an advisor to cite possible dangers, but Meryn is having none of it. 

"This will _not_ be another Wycome. Corypheus is dead. I won't stay behind and let another clan get trampled on because some nutter shemlen scavengers are trying to filch my people's history." 

Finding it difficult to argue with her conviction, Leliana concedes. "I'll have Cullen send a contingent to follow you as soon as possible." 

Meryn nods in appreciation, turning to leave via the stairwell. 

"We may need two," she throws over her shoulder. "Knowing my luck we'll run into the Venatori who've gone from worshiping darkspawn to doing elvhen blood sacrifices and having dancing corpse parties," she jests, sardonic smile firmly in place. 

Leliana means to ask for clarification but is startled when a blur of fur shoots out from under the table, vaulting nimbly onto Meryn's shoulder, trilling excitedly and rubbing insistently against Cole's hat. 

"Does he always do that?" Leliana asks, startled, slightly breathless. 

"Always," Meryn pushes out; trying to hold onto the hat Tadwinks is pushing off in his spirited affection. "Ready for an adventure young one?" the Inquisitor questions him. 

Tadwinks growls happily, standing on his back legs, and uses his front paws to push the hat to the floor, Meryn's hair spilling out and tumbling down her back. 

Admonishments of "Taddy no!" are drowned out by all hell breaking loose. 

Baron Plucky, finally successful in opening his cage, dives at Meryn, crowing in delight while attempting to pilfer her silver hair. Finding he can't pull it out with his beak, he latches onto it with his claws, trying to fly upwards and take the shrieking Inquisitor with him. 

Tadwinks, unsettled from her shoulder, hops serenely onto Leliana's desk, landing beside the small silver tin of mustache care supplies, picking it up gently in his mouth, meandering back down the stairwell and out of sight. 

Leliana leaps into action, untangling Plucky's feet, trying to save the diminutive Inquisitor. 

Two stitches and a bald spot later, the Inquisitor, Dorian, Blackwall and Cole are riding hard for the Exalted Plains, a gleeful Tadwinks in tow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: Meryn learns about the situation in the Exalted Plains from the hahren, and there's an angry druffalo. A big one.
> 
> Quotables: "Why do they always carry the incriminating documents with them? Shouldn't the creepy-secret-cave stay a secret?"


	4. Then-Justinian

"Why do they always carry the incriminating documents with them? Shouldn't the creepy-secret-cave stay a secret?"

Meryn Lavellan says pointing to the extremely detailed map she's pulled from the inner pockets of a fallen enemy. It may as well have a giant X on it pointing to the "secret lair" they'd been trying to locate for the last two weeks, and causes a huge feral grin to cross her face.

"Leliana never believes me when I tell her I literally-" gesturing to the map- "just pick these things up off the ground," she finishes, shaking the map for emphasis, startling Tadwinks who's ruffling around in the bushes.

"That's not entirely accurate Inquisitor," Dorian chips in.

"How so?"

"I have, on multiple occasions, seen you pick them off of desk tops." She chuckles, a more genuine smile crossing it.

"Corypheus' men were courteous that way," she replies with a shrug. "It took much less effort- you didn't even have to bend down."

For the first time since arriving at the Exalted Plains, Meryn feels hopeful, and it's a delightful contrast to how she was before the solid lead. A visible shudder passes through her as she recalls how irritable and frustrated she's been lately (lots of shouting), and how she's been taking those feelings out on everyone (with lots more shouting)-except Cole of course. She's not a monster.

Tadwinks darts out from bushes, carrying something in his mouth as he trots over to her.

"Find anything interesting?" she asks the fox. He sits on his haunches in front of her, dropping a large piece of wood at her feet. It resembles an oak branch, and besides a slight tingle of magic, is unremarkable.

"Not your best find young one," she says tossing the branch back into the forest. Tadwinks looks on, an unexplainable forlorn look in his brown eyes.

Using the map as a guide they set out for the cave.  

Meryn peruses the map, wondering why there is a sudden interest in Elvhen ruins-not just here but across Orlais and Ferelden. If the recent reports from Leliana's scouts were accurate, then Tevinter as well.

Tevinter.

Even saying the name in her head makes her skin crawl. She casts a searching look behind her, eyes landing on Dorian. It never ceases to amaze Meryn where her life leads-how she's become so close to a resident of such a despicable place. But Dorian's proven time and time again he is _nothing_ like her mother's captors.

Angry at herself for even thinking about _that_ unpleasantness, Meryn pulls a small, leather bound book from her utility belt, nearly stabbing her thumb on a lock pick. A quill rests between the pages, marking her place.   Shaking the painful jolt out of her hand she opens it, and unfolds the new map, comparing dimensions and landmarks. After estimating the proper scale Meryn transcribes the location of the thieves "secret lair" on her own rough map, just in case something happens. She stops walking abruptly, mind suddenly paranoid over everything "just in case" encompasses, and how terrible her luck really is. Violet casts around for any cliffs, ledges or rabid feral cats (because yes, it happened), then shoves the original map more firmly then necessary into her utility belt. Just in case.

Feeling the need to organize her thoughts and calm down, Meryn passes over pages of her work- unpolished maps made up of incomprehensible scribbles and shorthand, but which is perfectly legible to her. She thumbs to a blank page then turns the book so the page is running horizontally. She draws a solid black line the length of the page, with smaller tic marks breaking the line into increments, creating a blank timeline. With a mental sigh of relief, as if she can already feel her scattered thoughts becoming blissfully organized, she tries to figure out where to start.

"First thing, first thing," she mutters to herself, idly running the feather of her quill across her lips. "Oh!" she exclaims, scribbling down _Reports of unusual sightings in_ _Temple_ _of_ _Mythal_. Meryn remembers when Leliana's scouts first brought the reports back- she thought nothing of it initially. Elvhen ruins had strange sightings all the time, usually humans who didn't factor old magics into their pillaging and ended up crispy. And dead. If that wasn't a strange sighting she didn't know what was (besides Sera in a dress and garters). She shivers at _that_ mental image but shoves it aside.

But strange sightings at the Temple of Mythal- which was abandoned by all but (Sentinels included) except for Inquisition soldiers and researchers. The fact that these reports came in at all (with no mention of crispiness) meant the raiders were clever enough to get past her men _and_ latent magic.

Since nothing appeared to be defaced or missing, she'd dismissed it for the time being to focus on the routing out the remaining pockets of Venatori, leaving Leliana to keep her ears open for any news.

"Next...next..." she asks aloud, tapping the quill against her teeth, not paying attention to her surroundings until she steps forwards and foot only hits air. She stumbles down the small hill, nearly biting the quill in two. Her face scrunches in disgust as the taste of ink fills her mouth when she lands at the bottom.

Gagging, she throws the book and quill to ground, hands flailing desperately for the canteen in her pack. She drags it to her lips, roughly gargling the water to clease the foul taste from her mouth before spitting it out on the ground. She opens her eyes, wiping her arm across her mouth, to find her companions are ahead of her, not even bothering to stop, though Tadwinks yowls at her from Cole's shoulder, his way of asking if she was alright.

Wondering if she should be offended Meryn scoops up her dropped items and trotting back up the hill to catch up, pulls leaves out of her ponytail.

The next event comes to her.

"Increasing reports of strange activity in Elvhen ruins," she murmurs as she writes the words with a flourish, well, tries to write with a flourish as the broken quill leaves dribbles of ink across the page. Seeing how similar it is to the first event and how long it took her to figure it out makes her question herself with a shake of her head.

The reports started coming in from around Ferelden- ruins in the Korcari Wilds and the Brecilian Forest being raided, but not destroyed, as if the perpetrators were searching for something without really knowing what it was.

Her concern grew at this point. Leliana's agents informed Meryn what types of magics would be needed to get through the ruins completely undetected, as well as to open the hidden chambers the agents found afterwards. Those could only be opened with knowledge of the Old Ways and a sophisticated grasp of Elvish-and she's positive a Dalish would _never_ give that knowledge away to humans willingly.

The next entry is easy.

_Missives sent to Dalish clans in Orlais and Ferelden._ Assuming they continued the same pattern, it was only a matter of time before activity was reported in Orlais. Hoping to get ahead of them, Meryn sent runners to the clans scattered throughout the south-which brings them to the Exalted Plains.

_Keeper Hawen Seithan and First Taven Seithan abducted._

_Hahren_ Melani had been distraught, explaining Hawen, Taven and the clan's best hunters went to drive out the pack of shems fooling around in the ruins, but only one hunter returned, shortly succumbing to his injuries.

Hearing the story had made her more determined then ever.

This confidence must have showed on her face as she spoke with the _hahren_ , because the panic gradually left his eyes and he seemed to notice her for the first time. _Her_ as Meryn the Dalish and not _her_ as the Inquisitor.

His cries of " _Ghilan'asan En'an'sal!"_ made her suspicions a certainty and drew the attention of most of the camp. She cursed herself for being so foolish and forgetting to darken her hair before entering the camp- attributing her carelessness to spending so much time around humans, where she doesn't have to worry about Dalish superstitions. He started reaching for her hair, and Meryn, extremely grateful for her habitual ponytail backed away, bumping into someone's chest.

She turned around quickly, but not before losing a few loose strands.

Her companions must have sensed her discomfort with the sudden flurry of activity because they barked out apologies and swift good-byes, grabbing her on the way out. The shouts of _Ghilan'asan En'an'sal_ had barely faded before Dorian and the other were plying her with questions she refused to answer- humans rarely understood Dalish "eccentricities".

Meryn was happy she could help raise the morale of the camp and reassure the hahren, but she was definitely _not_ returning to camp without scrounging for the black walnuts necessary for the dye first.

_Hahren_ Melani had been right to panic-not about her lucky hair-but about the missing Keeper and First. Without a Keeper or First the clan was virtually leaderless.

Yet there was a more pressing concern.

Keepers and their Firsts are the guardians of Dalish culture, tasked with carrying on the ancient traditions. The stories, the magic, even the very language; Keepers being the only ones to know how to write in Elvish. The loss of both leaders at the same time could cripple the clan, and the loss to Dalish culture as a whole is immeasurable.

Even Meryn-who is a terrible Dalish, barely able to hold a bow let alone use one, and who rarely agrees with them on anything-she understands the magnitude of this potential loss. It was what fueled her determination when every lead they'd followed since arriving here had fallen apart.

Her mind had started running rampant in speculation-what could they possibly need the Dalish for? And why now? What state would she find them in? The questions were letting her mind conjure up horrible scenarios, most of them involving blood magic and nugs, so she cuts off that train of thought, focusing on the positives.

The map.

She would find them. She may not always agree, or even _like_ her people, but she did respect them and the care they'd given her after her father left her with them. She could protect _them_ as they protected _her.  
_

With a renewed determination, Meryn pulls herself from her thoughts. She glances at the timeline, jotting a note in the margins about the black walnuts, and attributes her new found clarity to it. Everything was easier for her to process when she could see all of it-see the forest instead of the individual trees. It's why she loved maps so much, and spent so much time creating her own-they were instrumental in helping her determine priorities and importance.

It doesn't hurt that they're beautiful to look at.

Finally noticing how far behind she's fallen she tucks the atlas and quill away and runs to catch up, eyes searching the forest for walnut trees.

______________________________________________

 

"Dorian! Your flank!"

"Wait-why me? Isn't that your job?"

"Not when- COLE! Watch it!"

"Could we focus on killing these bastards and not-oof!"

"Cole! No!"

"Don't you do it-"

" _Sylaise's fiery nips!_ DON'T HIT THE DRUFFALO!"

With a renewed sense of urgency (and the fact that shouting completely gave away her position), Meryn leaps out of the shadows onto the back of a spellbinder, plunging the twins- Syl and Targen- into his back. She twists the daggers roughly, severing his spinal cord, letting him drop-boneless- to the ground.

The druffalo Cole accidentally hit is running free around the battle field, charging violently at any who comes in his range. The corpses of two of the "looters" are already trampled at his feet.

"Blackwall! Grapple that thing!"

He rushes to follow her orders even though he's already holding two other men. She drops back to the shadows, re-checking her blades, ensuring they remain coated in deathroot serum. The acidic green sheen reflects back at her, so she slips behind the nearest of Blackwall's opponents, slicing across his back in a wide arc, then attacking with a flurry of fast-but shallow-precise cuts, the length of his torso, arms, and legs. The brute finally notices her as she nicks his femoral artery, but she's already skipped away, moving on.

Reaching into the back pocket of her utility belt, she grabs a throwing knife coated in the anti-serum, tossing it at the large laceration on the brute's back as she drops back into stealth to finish off the last of Blackwall's nuisances. The small knife flies true and the reaction is instantaneous, the dozens of previously ignored injuries erupting as the anti-serum combines viciously with the deathroot in the cuts, spreading fire through the brute, blood pouring out of him.

"Ugh-would you kindly keep the mess away from my robes please! The dye is new!"

Cackling at Dorian's revulsion (she being the one to gift him with the puce colored robes, necessitating the new dye job), Meryn focuses on Blackwall's last opponent, a skirmisher with a similar style to her own, though his footwork could use some improvement. He steps before every attack, broadcasting his intentions-and if she's being completely honest-his awareness could be better too. She should definitely _not_ be able to sneak up behind him, impaling him on one blade while slitting his throat with the other-he should be watching for stuff like that. Err-she corrects herself-watch _ed_ for stuff like that.

With a disappointed shake of her head, Meryn casts her eyes around the field, assessing quickly and locating her companions; Blackwall feints and taunts the enormous bull, drawing it's attention. She can't find Cole, so he must be sneaking around somewhere, and Dorian is freezing a particularly mouthy red head-the curses she's flinging could almost make Sera blush. (Only almost. Meryn's certain Sera purposefully lived in a gutter for time just to learn some extensive and exotic vulgarities.)

"Dorian! Save that one!" She shouts at him, knowing they'll need information sooner or later. And what better source then a chatty red- head? She wished Bull was here. He _loved_ chatting up prisoners-and with that thing he had for red heads...

"Oi! You lot going to help or you planning on leaving this beast for me?" Blackwall yells, leaping to the side again. He's doing quite well actually, moving as nimbly as the heavy plate and cumbersome shield will allow-but it's only a matter of time before the acrobatic maneuvering takes its toll on his endurance.

The druffalo, angrier now, is taking his turns more sharply, wildly swinging his head, horns grazing dangerously close to Blackwall's chest. Blackwall- startled- stumbles slightly, rolling his ankle, and takes his eyes off the large beast as it shifts once again. The druffalo stamps his hoof, preparing to charge, until Cole appears-leaping at it, blades extended-landing roughly on his back.

The bull's cry of pain gives Blackwall a well needed moment to recover, and the warrior tries to draw his attention again but the beast is obsessed with the nuisance on his back-bucking wildly, trying to dislodge his unwelcome passenger. The bull charges into a nearby tree, dazing himself but sending Cole flying through the air, only to crash on the ground, knocking the air from his lungs. The bull recovers first and rushes toward the kindly spirit lying prostrate on the ground.

"No! Cole!"

Meryn sprints to the spirit, pushing her body to the limit, but it's too far. She watches the scene as everything seems to slow, knowing the inevitable collision will kill the gentle spirit, and shouldn't she be crying or in shock or something? But all she can feel is _pissed_.

She's toppled kings (well, saved a queen), traveled through time (not by herself but still), and, oh yeah-saved the world!-without losing a single person (or spirit). A measly two thousand pound druffalo and thirty feet are not-

_...Move...  
_

**_...MOVE..._ ** _  
_

-a roaring sound fills her ears, following the mental shove of the Well as a green flash of light envelops her, leaving her chilled and covered in goose bumps even as her body is propelled forward. The roar turns into a loud rip, and with another burst of light she is suddenly running _past_ Cole, instantly covering the remaining distance, the druffalo almost on top of them.

Without losing momentum, she spins, shoving Cole with the remains of her strength, knocking him safely out of the way. She throws herself to the side, sending a plea to the Creators-who must still be offended because the druffalo nails a glancing blow to her ribs-cutting through her leather armor, tearing the skin.

Meryn cries out in pain, fully expecting to meet her end and freakishly pleased it's not at the claws of the demon in her dreams-when the tingle of magic flows past her and the druffalo is suddenly encased in a thick layer of ice, unable to move.

Never more grateful for the mage (except maybe that one time he told Josephine that _he_ was the one stealing all of the diplomat's quills and ink), and curious why it took her bleeding out to catch his attention, Meryn watches as Dorian, Blackwall, and a recovered yet worried Cole make short work of the beast, and-when sufficiently vanquished-Dorian and Cole rush to her side, the latter with an apologetic and guilty look on his face. Which Meryn images makes sense since the only thing holding her insides _on_ her insides is her hand, and it is doing very little to staunch the wound. Far too small.

It was times like these she wished for Solas' hands; he was really good at things like wound holding and really good at other, _not_ wound holding things -things that make her blush instead of gush. Heh. She rhymed.

"Hands. Large hands built for cleverness. Cleverness in caressing. Especially-"

"Cole!" Dorian cuts him off, reaching into his pack for the medical supplies and health potions. The potions he shoves roughly in her hands and she swallows them blearily, head cloudy as he applies a poultice to the wound and wraps it. The potion works its familiar miracle and she feels clarity returning, and with it, a mountain of pain.

"Ow...ow ow owowowow!" She breathes out through her grimace as Dorian finishes.

"We need to head back to camp," he says, assessing his handiwork. "You need a healer to close it properly."

"What! But we can't lose the time-we're so close!" she exclaims, arguing. "We've already wasted weeks tracking the looters here, and who knows what's happened to the Keeper and the First! We're running out of time." Frustration leaks into her voice, Meryn being unaccustomed to being helpless or useless.

"No. You used the last health potion, and we can't go into an uncharted cave anyway," Dorian counters, putting his foot down (literally and figuratively in this case).

She reaches delicately into her utility pouch-minding her ribs- and pulls out the atlas. She flips through the pages, finding the one she marked earlier.

"There. See? It's charted! Let's go," she says, pointing to the rough illustration, displaying it proudly.

"You're so cute when you think you're being clever," Dorian replies, patronizing her. "But since no one can actually _read_ your scribbles it hardly counts."

He leans down to scoop her up, holding her gently to avoid exacerbating the wound. Blackwall returns from rifling pockets and searching the looter's camp for valuables and Dorian plunks her in Blackwall's arms, muttering something about a "sensitive spine".

"Back at camp to recover and re supply. We'll come back in the morning," he says marching away, avoiding her eyes after usurping her authority. The remaining two follow, seemingly at a loss for something else to do though Cole hovers over her closely, ringing his hands.

"Wait! Hey! Aren't I the one in charge here?"

Her protests are promptly ignored the entire trek back to camp, giving her ample enough time to ponder teleporting and the fact that when the Well spoke to her, she clearly understood two distinct voices.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Ghilan'asan En'ansal- Luck's Blessing  
> Any and all Elvish comes from Project Elvhen (amazing amazing amazing and yes I mean that as the dork who would read through a fictional dictionary) , but the bad translating is all me so if I mess it up..my bad...
> 
> This chapter got soo far away from me I had to split it into three, it didn't end up sticking to the outline, but the flow is better and I can bring in some of the missing but necessary characters faster then I thought (*cough). On the plus side I should have the next part up pretty quick (the two bit doxy should be in the next part if everything cooperates). Unless work kills my soul this week but who knows. Oh yeah...this whole druffalo thing-was I the only one who hated fighting around them in game? I feel like they were wayyy harder then the actual enemies. Full Guard garbage. Pft.
> 
> Next time: Everyone's feeling chatty-the Well, Jowly, and that two bit doxy. 
> 
> Quotables: "If you're going to insist on sounding like a two bit doxy fresh off the wagon from the bannorn, at least be creative it!"


	5. Then-Justinian

The cinnamon and honeysuckle field greets Meryn as she enters the Fade that night after being cleared by the healer. She can't help but groan, throwing her hands up.

"Is one night off too much to ask for?!" The sound echoes through the valley, bees stirring lazily from the wildflowers.

"You just get back to me on that alright?" she continues to shout to the sky, arms crossed over her chest. Meryn shakes her head realizing she is alone in her dream-and therefore literally yelling at no one but herself.

**_...Silence peasant._  
**

Or maybe not as alone as she thought.

Confused, Meryn searches the field, looking for the owner of the voice. "Hello?" she calls out. A shuffling in the bushes announces Tadwinks presence as the Fade fennec bounds into the field, hopping cutely around her ankles as his chocolate eyes look up at her, yipping all the while. Meryn smiles, reaching down to scratch his ears.

**_...Peasant. Leave the rodent be. It's dirty.  
_ **

Meryn shoots up-nearly cuffing the fox-spinning around, wildly searching for the voice. She's positive it's not the terror demon-his voice is reedy and thin. This one is deep and authoritative, oozing the surety and confidence that only comes with old age and experience.

**_...I would certainly assume so,_** the voice says with a definitively masculine ring, sounding grumpy.

Excellent. She'd managed to offend something she could only hear in her head-

Voices _in_ her head...

"...hello?" Meryn-somewhat meekly- questions, eyes looking upward even as she's focusing internally.

**_...Yes rube?  
_ **

With a squeak, her legs buckle and she falls (more like _collapses_ ) gracelessly to the valley floor. She scuttles backwards, hands and feet digging into the dirt, eyes sealed shut as she tries to get away before realizing that:

1.) She looks utterly ridiculous. Tadwinks is starting at her with his head cocked so far to the side Meryn's positive the fox thinks she's insane.

2.) She's trying to run away from something that not only doesn't have a body but only exists in her...head...

3.) Well, mostly just 2. Kind of all number two.

**_...Are all the Elvhen of this time like you churl? So..._ **

The voice searches for a word, muttering something in High Elvish. Or she hopes its High Elvish because in the modern tongue it's far from flattering.

_...Peace. She is the Vessel. We are bound to offer our aide.  
_

If Meryn wasn't already in the dirt, she would have been-her head feeling even more over crowded then usual. She has enough errant and frivolous thoughts for a multitude of people-she doesn't need them developing personalities.

Or talking back.

_...Please, calm yourself da'len. Settle your mind._

The second voice is kinder and gentler then the first, and if sound could be represented as color, this voice shimmered like silver. Meryn can practically see the voice's owner and the image is remarkably similar to her mother-tall and willowy with bright lilac eyes and glorious silver hair strikingly curling down the length of her back. (Meryn can't help but feel jealous of the voice- even in her imagination the voice's hair is superior to her own limp and boringly straight locks.)

 Plus, the ethereal feminine voice of the second got that pompous one to shut up. Meryn prefers her already.

**_...Bah! This just proves Elves of this time are fools-_ **

"Stop listening to my head!"

**_...Stop shouting them for all to hear._** An slip of thought flits through Meryn's mind. ** _  
_**

**_...Choking yourself is not sufficient to silence me. Peasant.  
_ **

If she could glare into the back of her own head she would. The little fox watches, ruby eyes locked and intent on her, seemingly enraptured by the one-sided conversation he's watching.

"Who are you?" Meryn questions as the alarmed bees settle back into their flowers, gathering pollen.

**_...I AM-_** he seamlessly switches back to High Elvish, ostentatiously rambling off what sounds like a litany of titles and names, none of which Meryn can actually make out apart from the odd syllable.

"Sael? The First?" The voice instantly deflates, insulted that her inferior Dalish intellect is only capable of grasping the least impressive of his titles.

_...You know us da'len. You came to us to aid you against the Tainted pretender, but you were not ready to listen.  
_

"You're-wait- the Well?" Meryn asks. She feels a positive affirmation in her head. "And what does 'not ready to listen' mean exactly?"

_...You were denying your birthright.  
_

"My birthright? What birthright? Stop talking to in riddles!"

She hates riddles. Iron Bull asked her one once- _Often will I spin a tale, never will I charge a fee. I'll amuse you an entire eve, but, alas you won't remember me._ She'd stared at him stupidly for twenty minutes before he took pity on her and just told her the answer-a dream.

Ironically fitting for the moment- she's just met Sael and Meryn is already wishing she wouldn't remember him.

**_...Magic, you shemlen twit._  
**

"Hey!" _  
_

_...It, along with our language, is innate to all inheritors of the Elvhenan, but one must be willing. In your desperation to save your friend, you stopped denying an integral piece of yourself, and the magic was able to answer.  
_

"But why can I only hear the two of you now? Before it was like-" Meryn puckers her lips, blowing out a whooshing sound as her hands run over the air, trying to say that the babble of the Well used to remind her of a thunderous river, but it's not coming out as she wants it to.

**_...Peasant. Are you a fool as well?_ **

Definitely not coming out the way she wants it too.

"Let's just say it was loud," she finishes lamely, oversimplifying.

_...You hear us for we are the most prominent. If you are to know him as Sael- the First- know me as Fel'ala, the Last.  
_

"Hello again then? I guess?" Meryn greets them awkwardly. "Wait- so does this mean I can finally get a night off and a good night's sleep? I don't have to worry about the Anchor acting up or that stalker-demon?" Meryn's excited now, and not the least bit smug her pleas to the sky were heard.

**_...Pft. If the Elvhen of this time were not so clearly inept you would have been sleeping already._** The glare she imagines shooting into the back of her head is so sharp Tadwinks runs off into the field.

Fel'ala pauses, ignoring the First, and when she answers, it's with a regretful tone.

_...Not exactly. The Key of Fen-  
_

**_...CEASE._ **

 

Sael issues the command so swiftly and surely without the usual trace of surliness that both Meryn and Fel'ala do not question. They merely obey.

**_...Get up._ **

Meryn rises quickly, brushing the dirt off as she tries to determine what Sael's detected. She locates Tadwinks in the center of the field, ruby eyes locked on the forest behind her. The bees are no longer buzzing contently around the flowers, but have swarmed together in a cloud, flying lazily in a loose formation above the fox.

"What is it?" she murmurs, making to move toward Tadwinks but wary of the insect cloud.

**_...Useless. No wonder you are being consumed._  
**

"Excuse me?!" she whispers heatedly.

**_...Even a child could detect the belligerent force in those woods.  
_ **

The demon's back. Of course.

"So instead of insulting me and my ancestors- let's not forget you're insulting yourself there old man- you help me find him so we don't get possessed?"

**_...Pft._** Meryn takes the scoff as acquiescence.

**_...The ripple of mana is unique to every individual- human, elvhen- even those horned cattle from the north- it is a mark you can use to identify your opponent._** Sael explains as she tries to mimic the images and impressions he's suddenly flooding her mind with.

**_...Only the most gifted can mask or alter theirs._** He must have detected an unvoiced question because he continues- **_It should not concern you here. Only the most talented of the Elvhen could so do in Arlathan.  
_**

"Oh thank you Sael. I hadn't noticed yet how inferior I am compared to the rest of you," Meryn says indignantly as she loses concentration.

**_...You are welcome peasant.  
_ **

Meryn closes her eyes, trying to focus as Sael showed her. Calming her breathing, she focuses on her other senses- picking up the now familiar scent of honeysuckle and cinnamon from the breeze. She hears the sound of the bees as they hover over the fennec. She can feel the tingle of magic across her skin as the Fade moves and shifts around her, accommodating the small details it finds from her mind and the minds of other dreamers.

Focusing on the tingle opens her senses up deeper, allowing her to hear the hum of the Fade as it moves- the song of the raw Fade. She follows it, listening until the notes sour when they come to the forest. 

When she opens her eyes she sees him. Or rather _her_ this time. And not really _her_ so much as the hazy outline of color around her- a dark, putrid olive.

**_...Congratulations. You saw your first Fade aura. Finally.  
_ **

Choosing not to rise to the bait Meryn responds with a simple 'Thank you', squinting her eyes to try and see the olive aura and it's owner more clearly.

**_...Of course if we were in Arlathan and this were a duel you would have lost multiple times over and been pressed into servitude.  
_ **

"And if you were _here_ you would be pressed into servicing the halla pen," she snaps back, rolling her eyes.

**_...Hallipin? What is this hallipin?_ ** Fel'ala subtly clears her throat, ending the conversation before Meryn can flash the proper images.

_...What do you see da'len?  
_

"Um...she's definitely a she-a man can't pull of those hips."

**_...No peasant. What does the mana radiate to you?  
_ **

"The aura? It's green-well a kind of sick looking olive?"

**_...Then your initial assumptions were correct. You face a terror demon. Remember the color however rube. Demons are not unique enough to have differing auras-once you see one you will always be able to identify its brethren._** She files the information away for later as Sael gives her a new set of marching orders.

**_...Now. Arm yourself._ **

With nary a thought, Syl and Targen appear on her back in all their polished glory, as well as her favorite serpent stone armor. Proud of herself (since she'd been practicing nearly every night since coming to the Plains) Meryn waits for Sael's acerbic comments or accolades from Fel'ala.

**_...Accolades? Fool. To me your kind are as infants playing with sharp sticks and rocks- it is merely a matter of time before a grievous injury. Now go.  
_ **

Protesting, Meryn walks to the center of the field, but her toe catches on a sharp rock and she trips, falling face first in the dirt.

**_...As I-_ **

"Stuff it!"

Cursing her deplorable timing and Mythal for allowing Sael to be her High Keeper in the first place, she trudges to the center of the field and stands next to Tadwinks.

The fennec is standing rigidly, eyes still locked on the forest, ears upright and alert. He hisses loudly at the woods, and as the feminine figure emerges, he whines pathetically, shaking himself. He blinks up at her, fear and confusion in his chocolate eyes before scampering up her legs and settling himself on her shoulder, trying to bury his head in her hair. Meryn shushes him, focusing on the figure.

"Oi! Inky! Where you been at? I've been waitin' for your elfy ass all night yeah?" Seeing the demon chose Sera this time, Meryn groans, imagining all the possibilities of death and dismemberment the demon might conjure up in Sera's name.

"Oh shut it! We both know who you are you lunatic, so stop pretending and get on with it." Not-Sera cackles.

"Clearly not if you're thinkin' little ol' me is an insanity demon. I'm nuffin' like those nasty blighters."

"Really? Are you sure about that? Because I've seen _you_ and you look like something that got dropped off June's left nut-and trust me, he was far from the prettiest of the elfy elfs," she fills her insult with a false sense of bravado, hoping to cover her nervousness.

Meryn can feel Fel'ala's shock at her blasphemy and hears the Last rattle off something to Sael.

**_...Why would I? The peasant is accurate for once.  
_ **

The Inquisitor's not quite sure how to feel when Sael agrees with her, but Not-Sera chooses that moment to respond.

"You wound me," Not- Sera says in mock indignation. "But very well," and then he is on her- knocking the fox from her shoulders- wasting no time in a showy transformation, opting instead to change in an instant. One second Sera, the next as the familiar slack-jawed terror demon.

"Why do you resist?" he taunts as he swipes at Meryn's face with his claws- his thin, reedy voice echoing in her head. (Great. As if she needed another occupant up there. Maybe Sael could just wrestle him to death for her.)

"You will submit eventually- and I will rip the secrets from your flesh."

"I don't have any secrets- unless you want to know where the _good_ cookies are- that's all I got." Meryn dodges his swipe, rolling to the side so she can flank attack him. He is faster then she expects, and before her daggers can connect he knocks her aside.

Dazed, he grabs her by the throat, lifting her off the ground, but before he can squeeze and cut off her oxygen Meryn wraps one leg around his forearm to anchor herself and kicks out his bottom jaw with the other. He rears back in pain, dropping the elf.

"Gotta watch them jowls Jowly," Meryn sings out as she recovers, pouncing on him. She goes on the offensive, using Syl and Targen to cut-unsuccessfully- through his chitinous armor.

"Fool," the demon laughs at her. "Weapons are only as deadly as the magical intent behind them- you are powerless here."

"Any suggestions?" she questions the Well, pulling the Twins up to block Jowly's next attack as her mind is bombarded with a flurry of images; the images lacking any real context or explanations- though the picture of her tripping and falling after stubbing her toe on a rock is easy enough to interpret.

"You guys are terrible teachers you know that right?" Meryn yells as she dives back into the fray, shoving the Well to the far corner of her mind while she tries to think of something that doesn't include using the Anchor.

If she was back in Skyhold she wouldn't have hesitated- well she would have, but only because she feared Josie's wrath. She still can't control it, and if the Fade knife caused an explosion Meryn could kill someone in the close quarters of the camp.

"I tire of this," is the Inqusitor's only warning before the swarm is on her, Jowly commanding Sera's favorite tool to attack her.

They go for her face first, managing to land a few stings before Meryn can pull down her leather hood and pull the mask up over her nose, obscuring everything but her eyes. It helps at first- the bees unable to get through her armor- until they start landing _on_ her, crawling through the small gaps at the elbows and knees, a brave few crawling down her hood. She screams, dropping the Twins, trying to squash wherever she feels a sting- but there are to many- and the stings make her body feel slow, lethargic, even as her mind is fully active and screaming in pain.

She falls to her knees in the dirt, paralyzed. Jowly approaches her slowly, his too long arms dragging behind him, and if his bottom jaw wasn't broken somewhere around his chest Meryn would have sworn he was grinning at her. He drags one of his emaciated arms forward, using his hand to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes in an obscene perversion of a lovers touch-

-and when their eyes meet, he throws his head back and _screams_.

Not a normal don't- tickle- me- there- scream.

A blood curdling, toe-curling, a hide- your- children- hide- your- wives, see- your- life- flash- before- your- eyes- before- you- die- scream.

And that's what happens. The latter of course, as Meryn doesn't have any kids. Or wives. But the flashes she sees are not anything she remembers.

In one, a man paces before a beautiful black mirror until a dragon falls out of it, gently holding a chestnut-haired woman.

In another, two women stand over the body of a third, older woman. The smaller of the two bends toward the body, avoiding pools of blood, removing something from around the older woman's neck which she hands it to the taller, and this woman flees- the golden orb of the necklace's amulet flashing.

The memories keep coming, there for a moment and gone the next.

When she starts seeing images she recognizes-her mamae's horrible scars, her babae's back- _Solas_. Solas dying, Solas leaving, Solas, Solas, Solas- she understands what the demon is doing; breaking her down with an onslaught of her worst nightmares, her greatest fears come to life.

And it's working.

"Stop it!" Meryn pleads as she has to watch her mother burn _again_ and knows it's her fault. Jowly cackles as he screams again, the pulse echoing across the field, causing everything in the dream scape to tremble, except for the little fox whose crimson eyes are flashing as he hops around her hissing at the bees.

"You can end your torture at any time elf. Tell me where-"

A humongous black wolfy blur appears out of nowhere, knocking the demon over onto it's back. The wolf- the size of a horse with sleek, sable fur-lands on it's chest, and in a rage tears at Jowly's throat. The demon twists, throwing the wolf off him before disappearing in pool of acid green.

Tadwinks, terrified, flees into the woods.

Body still paralyzed, Meryn can barely move as the reassuring wolfy presence comes right up next to her, closer then ever before. She should be terrified- the beast did just try to rip out the throat of a demon- but she's not. The wolf is a frequent presence in dreams having made appearances in every one since Jowly first started showing up.

Meryn images he's a spirit of some kind- maybe Valor, Courage, or Fortitude- who felt the need to look after her. She assumes the same for the spirit that appears as her little fox as well.

The wolf approaches her slowly, pacing around her in an agitated circle, as if worriedly assessing her condition. He stops in front of her and sits down, yet even this way his size is enormous; Meryn's head only comes to his chest as she kneels in the dirt. He lowers his head, sniffing delicately at her neck, pausing ever so slightly to inhale deeply, his grey eyes closing as he analyzes the scent.

Then, rather grossly, he licks the side of her face, and whatever magic is in it frees her from the bees' poison. Meryn falls forward, flexing each of her muscles experimentally, finding everything sound.

Immediate concerns abated, the terrible images suddenly replay across her mind, overcoming her. She tries to hold the feelings back, to shove them to a far corner of her mind, but she can't. And the consequence of her failure is immediate- she sniffles.

Meryn pounds her first into the ground, trying to control herself. (She is a _woman_. Women cry. It's okay if a woman cries- that's what she tells herself anyway).   She hears a gentle snuffling above her, and a soft wet nose touches her cheek, catching the first tear before it falls. Meryn looks up, violet meeting a gentle grey that surprisingly reminds her of Solas.

He always did have an appreciation for wolves- she understands it now. Wiping her face as she stands up, she comes eye to eye with her savior.

"You did it again you know. Saved my life and all that. Thank you."

Raising a hand slowly, gauging the wolf's reaction, she asks permission to touch him. Grey is wary as it bores into her, but he leans down slightly. She scratches his ear- hesitant at first- but when the wolf closes his eyes, releasing a deep sigh (as if he'd been holding it for months) and pushes into her hand, Meryn commits, touching her forehead to his, intending to give the wolf the best ear rub of his life.

A shudder passes through him, and his eyes open in bliss, grey looking at Meryn as if she's the only thing he ever wants to see, and she's pleased with herself, grateful she can do something for him after he's saved her life yet again.

"It won't always be like this you know," Meryn tells him. "You won't have to go all howly and attack things for me," she's not sure if she's trying to convince the spirit or herself.

"Someone's coming to teach me all this Fade and magic business." The wolf goes rigid under her hands and Meryn halts the ear worship.

"Don't be upset- it's a good thing. You can still come and visit all you want but it'll be without all the-" she pauses, thinking and settles on "ARGHH!" mocking Jowly's scream and crab walk.

"It works out for you-no demon blood in your mouth. That has to taste nasty," she adds, laughing up at him.

The wolf is not amused-standing up suddenly- eyes hard as they stare down at her, and he takes off, heading to the crumbling ruins.

"Hey wait!" Meryn calls after him. She remembers what Sael said about demons and their auras- curious to see if it applied to spirits as well. She focuses on the wolf's, hoping to use it to determine what spirit he truly is and learn more about it.

The wolf is already fading when she manages it, the stunning blue-green of his aura one of the brightest things Meryn has ever seen.

That morning, when she finally woke up she felt rested for the first time in months. Well rested, and for some strange reason-

Completely whole.

 

____________________________________________ 

 

A day and a half later, the well rested-ness flies out the window as Meryn Lavellan storms through the Inquisition camp, seeking out a certain Tevinter mage. She pauses outside of a small tent on the edge of the encampment, listening.

"Oh yes. Very original."

A pause, then a muffled voice.

"Ah and there it is- a wildly inaccurate assumption about my mother. How quaint."

A tingle of magic followed a slight groan of pain.

"That was for my mother- who is quite the fashionable lady. If you're going to insist on sounding like a two bit doxy fresh off the wagon from the bannorn, at least be creative about it. Honestly."

Taking that as her cue, Meryn moves the tent flap aside, catching the eye of Dorian Pavus, the mouthy red-head's "interrogator". She flicks her head towards the entrance, gesturing outside.

"Anything?" Meryn asks the mage as he follows her a short distance away.

"Nothing yet. She keeps insisting they tripped and fell." Rage burns through the Inquisitor, and Meryn's about to storm in there and see how the red-head looks after _she_ "falls" around the Twins, when Dorian grabs her around the shoulders.

"I'll keep at it. Go check on Cole and those Keepers of yours." Grumbling out 'fine' even as she sees the prudence of her friend's request, Meryn back treks across the camp to the medical tents, lost in her thoughts.

Looking back, she really shouldn't have made that Venatori joke to Leliana before she'd left Skyhold, but how was she to know it was actually true?

The "looters" turned out to be a sect of Venatori who broke away from Corypheus' main force sometime before the Temple of Mythal. This conclusion came based on information from papers- signed by the mysterious "C"- the Venatori left lying around on their desktops.

When the Inquisition raided the cave, they found the Dalish leadership locked in a cell, both unconscious-nearly exsanguinated- their bodies covered in cuts and bruises. The worst gashes were located on their arms, legs, and neck- essentially the easiest locations to access blood.

The injuries brought the previous night's dream ( and not the good bits) to the forefront, when Jowly was showing Meryn her mother's scars-all of which were located exactly where the worst injuries on the Keepers were. All the evidence the Inquisitor needed to conclude the Venatori were using the Dalish as blood slaves- using Elvhen blood to power blood magic rituals.

What exact ritual Meryn isn't sure- nor why they stole the Keeper and First specifically- but she can only imagine what a crazed blood mage would do when given access to Old Blood- the blood of the elves believed to be more powerful and contain more magical potential then that of other races. The older the bloodline, and the purer the connection to ancient Arlathan, the better.

Meryn reaches the medical tents, the situation unchanged from when she left- the reclaimed Keeper Hawen and Taven- his First- are on pallets on the ground, clinging to life, with Cole aside them, arms locked around his knees, rocking forlornly back and forth.

Meryn enters quietly, touching Cole gently on the shoulder. He startles, looking at her with despair in his eyes.

"They're hurt. I want to help, to heal, but I don't know how."

The depth of his compassion never ceases to amaze her (even while Meryn acknowledges the redundancy of finding a Spirit of Compassion compassionate).

"I know Cole. Dorian's trying to figure out what they're poisoned with but he's not doing well," Meryn says in a low voice. "What about you? Any luck?"

Cole's eyes close as he focuses, his hat wobbling weakly on his head.

"Blood. So much blood. Blood for dark magic and a dark purpose but why-" He cries out in pain suddenly, clutching his head.

Meryn grabs his shoulders, forcing the spirit to look at her. Cole's pupils are fully dilated, leaving his normally cheery blue eyes as black pits. His brow furrows as he concentrates, trying to stay _in_ the Keeper's mind from whatever is trying to force him _out_.

He starts whispering rapidly, so fast Meryn can barely make it out-

_We are here._

_We have waited._

_We have slept._

_We are sundered._

_We are crippled._

_We are polluted._

_We endure._

_We wait._

_We have found dreams again._

_We will awaken._

 -and with a gasp, he's back. Sort of.

"Enchantment?" he looks up at her, blue eyes confused. Perplexed, Meryn can't help but shake him a little.

"Cole! Are you alright?" The spirit blinks a few times, seemingly confused at his name, then squeezes his head in his hands.

"Mer....yn...?" Cole questions slowly elongating the syllables as he draws his hands back to his sides; the relief she feels is evident on her face as Meryn repeats her question.

"I think so," he says, eyes clearing. "What were we talking about again?"

"You don't remember?" she asks, disturbed. These new Venatori are even more sinister then the last batch-blood sacrifices, forbidden magic, and a creepy new theme song/poem thing.

"Remember what?"

"Maybe it's better this way. You were sounding a like a nutter- said some real crazy stuff," she says affectionately, taking his hat off to ruffle his feathery blonde hair.

The Inquisitor realizes she worries over him like a mother hen, but Meryn can't help it- the boy can talk to those who couldn't and it was a troublesome ability at the best of times-

Her head snaps up at the errant thought.

Talk to those who couldn't talk...

...Talk to those who _wouldn't_ talk? Maybe?

"Cole- I have an idea how you can help," Meryn moves quickly, grabbing the spirit and pulling him to his feet. "Come on."

They race back to the red-head's tent, Cole barely able to keep up with her pace. She sets him up outside the tent, far enough away that the tent's occupants won't hear what they say but close enough for Cole to pick up the Venatori's thoughts. Telling Cole to wait, she heads towards the tent, pausing at the entrance.

"...eady done that. And with a qunari too. Try again."

Not wanting to hear the end of _that_ conversation (though she can only imagine if the rumors of Iron Bull's predilections are actually true), Meryn shoves the flap aside, barging in, grabbing Dorian by the arm and pulling the mage outside.

"Careful, careful- I'm having an excellent hair day today," Dorian says as he holds his hands around his head trying to block the slightest breeze.

"That you are. Anyway, I've had an idea." She goes the safe route, choosing to ignore a long winded conversation about Dorian's favorite subject- himself.

"What is it today? And before you ask I will _not_ participate in another round of Lets Poke the Bear. I told you the last time was my _last_ time. You never did replace those boots- and they were my special going out boots with an extra water proof lining in the sole." He seems only slightly disappointed Meryn doesn't want to have a long, detailed discussion about him and his marvelous hair day.

"Just get her _thinking_ about the Dalish- Cole should be able to pick up the rest- or at least something we can use."

Dorian pauses, thoughtful. "You know, you've had a lot of truly deplorable ideas- adopting that beastie of yours, letting _Sera_ do the decorations for All Soul's-" he shivers, and for a split second Meryn thinks the mage may actually compliment her.   "-But this has to be the absolute worst one yet."

Or not.

"I do aim to please," she finishes dryly, attempting to hide her dashed expectations.

"Truly. Just dreadful."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. But you'll do it right?" she asks as Dorian starts walking away towards the tent.

"Might as well," the mage says throwing his hand up in acknowledgement. "Nothing else worked."

Trusting Dorian's silver (and barbed) tongue, she heads back to Cole, who's looking anxious.

"I don't like her- she's not kind."

"I know Cole, but if you do this we may be able to find out exactly what happened to Hawen and Taven- then we can help them. Can you do it?" He nods his head, resolute. Meryn looks away for a moment, hearing a laugh from the tent.

"Stupid knife ears, thinking they're better then us." Whipping around at the insult, Meryn realizes Cole has the red head- and this whole mess might actually work.

"Blood. Blood everywhere. Why I ask. Boss says 'For answers' and keeps cutting them. She throws blood into the fire, asking it a question-seeking something-someone. But who?"

Cole has seemingly entered a trance, unwaveringly focused on the task at hand- to glean as much information as possible. Meryn, meanwhile is trying to stay detached, to merely absorb anything Cole manages to find without running into the tent and throttling the other woman.

"Useless.   Not pure enough- we'll have to _ask_. Wake them up; be careful with the shards she says. A shard for each cut- I wonder if the knife- ears can hear them whisper? Can they hear them sing?"

The more Cole says, the more Meryn fills with fury, her entire being quivering with rage over the treatment of her kin- but at least they know what the Venatori were keeping them comatose with.

She stops Cole quickly with a hand held to the side of his face, forcing a small smile on her own so he knows he was successful.

"Did I help?" He asks, blue eyes eager for approval.

"You did Cole-quite a lot. A lot a lot."

"Good." Meryn leaves him then, running back to the infirmary, and as she tells the healers the new information they spring into action, a pair with Keeper Hawen and another pair with Taven. They make her wait outside, but she stays, keeping a silent vigil.

The canvas tents do little to muffle sounds, so Meryn can hear nearly everything they do, her mind supplying the images- _vividly_. The tears she hears are the healers removing outer clothing, a soft splitting sound (which makes her wince) as one uses magic to reopen the wounds while the other halts blood flow.

Meryn blocks out the rest, preferring not to imagine the healers rooting around for red lyrium shards- though for some reason she pictures the shards having evil faces and really, really pointy teeth- and sealing everything back up. She prays to the Creators more out of habit then belief at this point, lost in her thoughts until a loud gasp and a small scream reach her ears.

Meryn's inside the tent with blades drawn in seconds, but the scene before her confuses her, and she relaxes marginally.

Keeper Hawen is sitting straight up, deathly pale, but his eyes are alert and locked on her. (If the first thing he says is _Ghilan'asan En'an'sal_ she's swears she's going to shave her head. To the Void with her crook face.)

She rushes to his side, ignoring the protests of the startled healers. Grabbing him, Meryn tries to ease him back down, but he fights her- as much as someone who's lost nearly their entire blood volume _can_ fight. She finally gets him down, but his eyes remain tortured- like he's trying to tell her something.

She gets as close to him as she dares, tilting her head towards the Keeper so her pointed ear is near his mouth. Hawen's whispers are broken, but Meryn doesn't know if it's due to thirst or his voice being destroyed from screaming for weeks.

"Ev...un..." he starts, running his tongue over his lips to soften them. She tries to soothe him, to tell him to relax, but he persists.

"Only way to stop..." Here he pauses, drawing in a deep breath and centering his thoughts.

"Find...evun..." he's getting weaker now, the determination in his eyes fading along with his voice.

"Save...evun'elan..." and forcing out a last word of High Elvish, Hawen Seithan- a revered Keeper of the Dalish- closes his eyes and passes into the Beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About chapter titles: 
> 
> The titles are based around the Tevene calendar on the Dragon Age Wikia. Firstfall (the first chapter) equates to November for us, the other chapters starting in Bloomingtide (May) and go from there.
> 
> Next Time: Taven wakes up and Meryn gets a dream visitor- surprisingly enough it's not Jowly.
> 
> Quotables: "You have no idea what you're getting into. Kind of like the time my friend Dorian stumbled into a ladies only bordello."


	6. Then- Solace

Whoever said to be careful what you wish for is a sodding _genius.  
_

Honestly, she should find the person and recruit him (or her as the case may be) for one of the Inquisition's research teams- they'd undoubtedly be able to solve one of those pesky little age old problems.

Like... the Grey Warden's Calling. Probably solve that in a week and a half and Ferelden would have its beloved Queen back and would award said genius with a medal or a title. Then _she'd_ have to present him (or her) an award from the Inquisition and in all honesty what token is sufficient for solving such a conundrum? She should just make him-or her- the Inquisitor and be done with it.

Wait.

Did she really just resign and give her home away to a complete stranger in a fictional scenario?

She did.

But what's she supposed to do?

She's _bored.  
_

Meryn isn't sure how to interpret her seemingly answered prayer- though it was more of a shouted curse then a prayer- from her dream days ago. She just wanted a single night without a showdown with the terror demon, and instead she'd gotten _days_ \- and nights- of peace.

So Meryn does what she always does when she's bored- finds something to occupy her time. And if that doesn't work, annoying one of her immortal ancestors is always a viable option.

"So that's it. Just like that? Seems a bit anti- climatic if you ask me." Meryn disagrees as she paces the forest, measuring out a big enough space for her experiment.

**_...Which is why no one asked you peasant._ **

Accustomed to the First's insults by now, she merely rolls her eyes as she continues.

"Moon children? You're seriously telling me that Hawen and Taven were tortured-for _weeks-_ by the Venatori. Tortured so badly..." she trails off, but the image of Taven's wide, vacant expression as he repeats "Evunelanevunelanevunelanevun..." over and over is forever burned into her mind.

**_...The depth of my affection and understanding of humans pales in comparison to the depth of my affection for you...peasant._ **

Meryn may detest the pompous First- but at least the contemptuous insults were improving.

**_...If you seek a more literal meaning, then follower or believer would be sufficient- unless you doubt my language skills. Are you doubting my knowledge of my native tongue_ dahn' direlan?  
**

"Nope. But I wouldn't be surprised if you kept something a secret from me because I'm not Elvhen enough for you," she pauses, ruminating. "In fact I'm certain of it- it sounds exactly like something you'd do," She takes a deep breath and adds for good measure "And stop calling me that!"

**_...Why would I? You did try to punch bees did you not;_** he stops for a moment, thoughtful. **_Though the colloquial meaning is aptly appropriate as well.  
_**

"I may seem like an idiot some-maybe most of the time- but it's not actually true."

**_...That remains to be seen peasant.  
_ **

Feeling her frustration rising, and not having an appropriate way to deal with it- since punching her own face seems a bit extreme- she concedes instead.

"You can hide it all you want. I know I've heard it before and I'll get it out of you eventually," Meryn promises darkly as she finishes her measurements, marking the last corner of the square with a large round rock. "You have no idea what you're getting into- kind of like the time my friend Dorian stumbled into a ladies only bordello."

**_...I will prepare myself,_** the First says sarcastically. **_I look forward to your efforts with the same enthusiasm I have for watching a tree grow.  
_**

Meryn dismisses him, mind emptying as she focuses on the task at hand- blinking. Taven waking up in a trance, Clan Seithan's imminent arrival at Skyhold, Jowly and the wolf's mysterious absence from her dreams of late, finding the evun'elan- all of it fades away as Meryn sets out to duplicate the Fade blink that saved Cole.

"This is about the right size right Taddy?" she questions the little fox who followed her (albeit reluctantly) into the woods a short distance away from the Inquisition's camp.

A blank- yet somehow vexed- expression greets her.

"Oh calm down you can sleep later."

With a long- suffering squeak the fennec rises, stretching slowly before turning in circles and laying back down on top of her utility belt and daggers, only this time his back is to her and his scorched fluffy tail covers his eyes.

Muttering under her breath about insubordinate little beasties, Meryn puts her back to the fox and replays the original blink in her head, paying attention to the little details- the interplays of light, the sounds, the sensations- coming back to the same conclusion. She _had_ to have gone through a rift.

Which could be a problem- she's never _made_ a rift before.

She's spent too much time closing them, running around them, sometimes screaming around them (usually bleeding around them) - though not necessarily in that order or all at once- but Meryn's not really sure where to begin with _creating_ one.

She stares at her hand for awhile; bringing the Anchor up to her face to study it, then holds it up to the sky, mimicking how she closes a rift. There's no rift present, but the Veil shimmers as if sensing the Anchor- and it gives her an idea.

Sensitive and intimately familiar with the Veil from interacting with it for so long, it takes no effort for Meryn to see the fabric of the magical barrier in her minds eye- though the interlocking strands and threads are more prominent this close to Skyhold then in other places she's been.

The weave, while prominent, is also tight and strong- Meryn can't see any frayed strands, an obvious sign of a weakening in the Veil. She keeps searching though, following the weave until she finds the slightest abnormality, and when she does she unleashes the Anchor on it, intent on driving her way through-

-and it works.

With a resounding rip, the Veil tears in front of her, opening a huge rift to the Fade- but it's _wrong_. It's all wrong.

_This may have been a bad idea..._

The portal she entered to get to Cole was just that- a portal. It was more of a slip between the Fade and the physical world as opposed to an open wound in the Veil.

Plus those demons coming out- that didn't happen the last time.

_This was definitely a bad idea._

Outnumbered and with the demons bearing down on her, Meryn grabs the sleeping Tadwinks and flees back to camp, questioning her life choices the entire time.

______________________________________

"Magician- Queen!"

Blackwall slaps the cards down, practically strutting in triumph, leaning forward to rake in his winnings.

"Excellent hand. Marvelous." The Tevinter mage congratulates him, making no move to stop Blackwall even though he neglects to flip over his last card.

He's hiding something. Mages- why can't they simply just _do_ things and leave out all the blighted theatrics?

"Unfortunately, not good enough," Dorian continues with a flourish, flipping his last card, revealing the final priestess, earning Dorian sixty five points, the hand, and the last of Blackwall's dignity.

Damn mages.

"At least I kept my clothes this time," the warrior concedes as he sits back down on his make- shift chair (a bucket) watching Dorian collect the last of the gold.

"Indeed- though I'm sure I am the more grateful party for that blessing," Dorian quips, counting his winnings. Satisfied, he eyes Blackwall again, a conniving gleam in his eye.

"Care to go again? Try to reclaim some lost honor? It's still early yet."

Blackwall declines with a laugh, opting to stand and stretch out his muscles from sitting on the bucket for so long.

"What else are you going to do? We're still three days from Skyhold and I've run out of things to do here-unless you'd let me near that beard of yours. I could fix it right up!"

Blackwall tries to hide the look of revulsion on his face but is unsuccessful.

"Fine then," the mages huffs as he gets up to wander away and find something to do, but not before letting out a shout of "I'm bored!"

Shock fills Blackwall at the mage's utterance of the forbidden phrase, and he chokes out- "Now why'd you have to say it? Do you have an aversion to peace and quiet?"

"Of course not, I'm just saying I'm finding it difficult to occupy my time when we've been gone for so long- I'm out of books and those new Dalish are not nearly as pleasant as our fair Inquisitor," Dorian explains, utterly unaffected.

At the other man's mention of the Inquisitor, Blackwall's mind starts turning, replaying his entire conversation with Dorian, small anomalies standing out:

It's early yet...

Bored...

Peace _and_ quiet...

Inquisitor...

As if reading his train of thought, Dorian pales, rubbing a hand over his face as he groans.

"We could be wrong. She could be sleeping," the mage starts, hopeful.

"Right," Blackwall scoffs. "And when has _that_ ever been the case?" The honesty of the sentiment makes Dorian wince.

"One can dream- when did you see her last?"

"Maybe an hour ago? Before we started the game?" The warrior thinks hard, trying to pinpoint the exact time.

"An hour? That's hardly enough time to get into any troub-"

As if the Maker himself wants to contradict him, the brilliant yet memorable burst of green light signifying an opening rift burns through the sky, the echoing explosion of sound reaching them shortly after, making their ears pop.

"You were saying?" Blackwall, pointing to the sky, turns to the mage, incredulous.

"That may be so," Dorian begins, looking chagrined. "But it's still your turn."

"What! No!" Blackwall exclaims, flabbergasted. "Last time I had to chase off an entire pack of bog fishers. Never doing that again," he adds quietly, quivering at the memory.

"I highly doubt there's any here, we're nearly in the mountains," the mage counters sarcastically.

Instead of answering, Blackwall makes a fist with one hand, placing it in the open palm of the other and gestures towards the mage as a look of understanding crosses Dorian's face.

"Best two out of three?"

Blackwall wins the first round killing Dorian's cultist with a high dragon, though Dorian tricks him, choosing the cultist a second time, crushing Blackwall's spider.

Before they can finish the last round a pulse from the nearby rift brings with it a renewed sense of urgency.

"I'll give you your gold back," Dorian offers as they shoot again, both choosing high dragon, resulting in another draw. "All of it," he adds, fist at the ready with a tantalizingly bright gleam in his eyes which Blackwall can't ignore.

"All of it?" he questions, just to be sure.

"All of it," Dorian confirms, offering his hand.

Blackwall grabs it in a rough shake, and then sprints for his tent to grab his gear, reminding himself to thank Lady Lavellan when he finds her- he's always been terrible at Diamondback.

Everything situated Blackwall runs into the forest, heading towards the rift, eyes peeled in the low light for any signs of the Inquisitor. As is normally the case, he hears her before he sees her, the stumbling as she runs through the forest extremely loud in the silent woods.

The tiny elf runs face first into his chest plate, the speed of her flight causing her to bounce off and land in the dirt, her large violet eyes looking at him in bewilderment before changing to something more akin to embarrassment.

She stands up quickly, brushing herself off, then bends back down to scoop up the dazed (and slightly squished) fox. She sets him on her shoulder instead of her arms and he curls automatically around her neck though the stunned look never leaves his vulpine face.

"Evening Blackwall," Meryn greets him, laughing nervously to herself as she anxiously wipes her hands on her thighs.

"Inquisitor," he responds, choosing to let her nervousness do the talking for him.

"How are you?"

"Fine."

"Out for a stroll? Nice night for it." As if in agreement about just what a nice night it is, the rift pulses, the moans and cries of it's tethered demons much more evident this close to it.

The green light draws their attention but the look on Blackwall's face must have made the Inquisitor's guilt and nervousness triumph over her embarrassment because the truth comes flooding out in a rush.

"IwasjusttryingtodothatthingwiththeFadewhenIsavedColebecausewhynot-and I made a rift instead?" -somehow ending in a gibberish question with the Inquisitor shrugging her shoulders and throwing her hands in the air.

Not entirely understanding- though this is the default state of being when one spent sufficient time around the Inquisitor- but satisfied, Blackwall can't help himself when he laughs at the expression on Meryn's face. A unique combination of guilt and contrition underlayed with a fierce dissatisfaction which he could only assume stemmed from whatever she was doing that caused the rift in the first place.

It also made Blackwall entirely certain she'd try it again once the rift is closed.

With a resigned sigh as he realized he's not going to sleep tonight Blackwall grabs the Inquisitor by the shoulders and drags her back to the rift, cursing Dorian the whole way for even _thinking_ of the word bored.

 

______________________________________

 

Three hours later and Blackwall is _still_ cursing the mage.

It's such a novice mistake and Dorian should have known better by now. Even contemplating the word "bored" around anything concerning Meryn Lavellan is tempting fate- a sure fire way to actively seek disaster.

This exact moment being a prime example.

Blackwall's not entirely sure what the whimsical little elf is doing- he lost interest about ten minutes in- but it mostly looks like she's staring into thin air.

She's clearly doing _something_ because the flashes of light he sees are always followed by the same sizzle and crash as she flies backwards past him to land in the bushes time and time again.

Like right now.

Hair eschew, silver falling down into her eyes from where she pulled it back, causes the Inquisitor to brush (sometimes blow) the strands annoyingly out of her face. Violet is tired, but determined, and she seems to be ignoring the small curls of smoke rising from various parts of her armor as she stalks back up the hill.

Blackwall, thrown, does a double take- when did she have time to set herself on fire?

Attributing it to another of the Inquisitor's quirks he can't hope to keep track of or keep up with Blackwall turns his attention back to his hands and the small wooden figurine he's making.

It's a solid enough piece of maple he's carved and shaped into a miniature fennec fox- the tiny creature next to him the source of inspiration. The figure is mostly finished- besides the small details he still needs to whittle into it. Blackwall means to give it to Sera when it's complete, a gift of sorts for the finicky elf who's always been a bit sore that Tadwinks preferred the Inquisitor's company over her own after Sera rescued him and brought him to Skyhold.

A frustrated sigh announces Meryn before she's standing over him, arms crossed behind her head, elbows pointed to the darkening sky.

"Giving up?" he asks kindly as he blows small shavings off the wooden toy.

"Never," she spits out vehemently.

She's persistent- he has to give her that. For all of her tendencies to be consistently _in_ consistent, she rarely gives up- she'll just keep trying with increasingly absurd results. But as she settles in next to him, legs crossed, it seems she's pausing for a moment.

"You don't have to stay you know," Meryn perks up suddenly. "I know you must be tired."

"And leave you to come wake me up in the middle of the night because you've opened another rift? I'll just wait here if it's all the same," his response gruff.

"Well thank you," she adds earnestly.

Before she can continue, Blackwall cuts her off- "Besides you'll knock yourself out eventually and if I wasn't here who would drag your sorry ass back to camp?" A sound comes from behind him, reminding him of something and he adds.

"Definitely not _that_ little one," pointing over his shoulder as a delicate and petite yawn from the sleepy fox only solidifies his point- the timing of it all making the Inquisitor burst out laughing. It's a nice laugh he has to admit- capricious and full of light- just like Meryn herself.

Violet warms with mirth and she looks at his hands for the first time, curious as always.

"What's that?" she asks, holding out her hand to touch it lightly with a brush of her fingers.

"Just a gift I'm working on. It's not quite done yet," Blackwall answers, handing it to her gently while keeping the whittling knife to himself- the Inquisitor would somehow manage to injure herself on the small (yet sharp) tool.

Upon hearing the wooden figurine is a gift she handles it even more carefully, holding it close to her face so that violet can catch every detail. A part of him feels as if _he_ is on display, even though Meryn's seen his work before- and praised it- but this is different. This time, he's trying to recapture the essence of her beloved pet, but the short intake of awe filled breath as she recognizes Tadwinks' image is enough.

"That's amazing! Look at all the details- he's perfect!" she exclaims, excitedly showing Blackwall things he already knows- being the one who put them there in the first place- such as the burnt and missing fur from the fennec's tail. She's still going on, praising his abilities, and asking him questions in a flurry.

With a short bark of a laugh, Blackwall takes the wooden replica from her hands, pulling up the whittle knife with the other.

"For things like this, it's all about finesse," he explains pointing to the thin, delicate lines that make up the rings of Tadwink's tail. "You can't just force what you want into the wood- you may as well just take a hammer to it-" he pauses with a laugh as he looks at his engaged audience. "But if you're patient and take your time..." he trails off, gesturing to the little toy.

"Finesse," she finishes for him, lost in thought as she gazes at the whittling knife.

"Finesse."

"Finesse...?" she questions, and this time Blackwall's not sure if she's talking to him or herself, until she rises abruptly, taking off back in the direction she came.

He's still staring after her, puzzled, when there's a flash of light, a rush of wind, and then she's suddenly right next him, flinging her small arms at him, hugging him tightly around the ribs.

Even more confused by the unusual display of affection, he settles for awkwardly patting the Inquisitor on the back, simply nodding whenever she babbles out "Finesse!' like it's the meaning of life and giggling to herself.

He'll just put this on the _very_ long list of things he doesn't understand about the eccentric and enigmatic Meryn Lavellan.

By the Maker that list is getting long.

______________________________________

 

The Fade must have been influenced by her excitement that night because for once she doesn't end up in the usual valley. The lack of honeysuckle and cinnamon filtering through her nose is only one more reason to celebrate- and all it took was some "finesse" which Meryn has in spades.

Most of the time.

Some of the time.

Hardly at any time, but she wishes she did and that has to count for something.

In the end the Fade knife was the key- instead of trying to punch (or hammer) a hole through the Fade she should have been trying to slip through, like a needle going through cloth without breaking it. She needed something to help her _bend_ the strands of the Veil without _tearing_ them- and the Fade knife allowed her that control.

Summoning it and maintaining it in the corporeal world is far different then in the Fade, and Meryn could only manage it for a few seconds, but it's enough.

What would have made the moment perfect was if Solas had been there- not that Blackwall isn't a great and supportive friend, because he is. (Who else- besides Iron Bull- would have sat (somewhat) patiently waiting for her to accidentally summon a horde of demons?) But for all the good Blackwall is as a companion, the warrior just doesn't _get_ _it._ The magic thing.

Meryn wanted Solas to be there- not only because she missed him- but because she simply wanted to talk to him again. To see what he thought about what she could do. He'd help her break everything down, exploring the mechanics and theories, as well the implications in that quiet and intellectual way of his.

Or he'd be surprised and intrigued with her antics which usually led to other things besides intellectual debates. She'd take that too.

A sharp pain shoots through her chest, prompting her to believe that maybe (just maybe) Meryn misses the apostate and all the little things they did together more then she originally thought.

Shaking it off she alters her train of thought, looking around her at where the Fade dropped her tonight.

Skyhold.

Meryn's interested in why until she remembers her last thought before falling asleep- the infamous tutor. She's been _almost_ excited to get back to Skyhold to meet a mage friend of Varric's who could teach a person who isn't a mage to _be_ a mage. Kind of.

She rises from her bed, seeking Jowly's familiar aura or anything else unfriendly but finds nothing except that she's in for another boring dream. (The Fade will probably make her relive Josephine's lessons on Orlesian cheese courses.  Void take her if that happens.)

Meryn dresses in her day to day attire and opens her door to the wooden landing, about to make the tiered descent to the main hall when she remembers- she's in the Fade- so why not take the quick way?

Bracing herself on one hand she jumps over the railing, falling three stories feet first. Her stomach bottoms out even as her face lights up in glee as she hurtles towards the incoming floor, but she lands soundly, popping back up to her feet from the rush of adrenaline.

With a devilish smirk and busy mind she realizes it might not be such a boring dream after all.

Scaling the walls of Skyhold is surprisingly easy- though Meryn is on the receiving end of a few odd looks. The most notable from a blonde human mage she doesn't recall seeing around Skyhold before.

Jumping off the highest wall in Skyhold to the frozen lake below is unsurprisingly difficult- but absolutely worth it.

Meryn's favorite is when she climbed into the rookery and flung herself over the banister, shooting a nonchalant wave to Dorian and the blonde mage he was talking too on the way down.

The look on Dorian's face- like a fish trying to breath out of water- is priceless. The blonde man, meanwhile, must have accepted that the famed Inquisitor is a bit touched in the head because he was laughing the whole time.

She's about climb Cullen's tower and fly in through the window- hopefully scaring him more then the time he walked in on Iron Bull and Dorian- when she passes by the recruits tower and gets an idea.

She crosses to the rundown unused tower across from the recruits barracks, finding a wall covered in uneven bricks and mortar. The wall looks like it is in desperate need of a touch up, the bricks beginning to jut out from the solidity of the wall- but Meryn just sees the hand and foot holds she needs to clamber up the side and onto the roof.

The very roof which puts her in the perfect place to spy on the unwitting recruits.

Cassandra has Varric's trashy novels, Leliana has pudding? Fancy shoes?

Meryn has idle, frivolous gossip- and it's _glorious._

Even the Inquisitor is entitled to a guilty pleasure every now and then- it doesn't have to be doom and world ending gloom all the time.  That's how she justifies her secret shame anyway.

Meryn settles herself in, removing her boots, throwing her legs over the sides to dangle and swing lazily back and forth. Releasing a sigh she doesn't realize she's been holding, she eyes the building across from her, thanking whoever built it for putting at least one window on every floor and on every side of the building- allowing her to see into at least one room on each of the four floors.

The first two are empty; someone is asleep on the third, but on the fourth... _gold._

The argument over picking up socks of all things starts between one of the recruits and her bunkmate, the words filtering across the distance to Meryn's sensitive ears and she allows herself to relax and be entertained by the display.

She loses track of how long she's been watching the recruits move in and out of the barracks.  (She's only gotten pins and needles in her extremities a few times so she's probably only been watching for a couple hours.)  Some of the recruits move quickly, as if they forgot something, others stay longer, settling in at the end of their shifts, and still more come and stay for some...quality time. Meryn blushes and turns around for a while at those- she's not a voyeur.

Or Sera.

Meryn only turns around when an argument she recognizes hits her ears, the Fade now drawing from her memories, which means that-

"Inquisitor?"

The sound of his voice after so long slams into her chest like a maul swung by a Tal- Vashoth; the fact that it's not really his voice, only the Fade echo of it, is utterly irrelevant.

Remembering how this particular memory played out, Meryn can't help but feel torn; a part of her scared to see him (even if it's just a spirit wearing his face) while a larger- and far more vocal- part is desperate for even the slightest glimpse.  She wars with herself, between what she _should_ do-what's better for her- and what she _wants_ to do.

Meryn peeks over the side, acknowledging him.

_As if it was really a choice_ , she thinks to herself.  Everyone's entitled to a guilty pleasure- right?

"May I speak with you?" Solas asks agitation unusually apparent.

"Is everything alright?" she questions, choosing to follow her memory. "You're looking kind of...grim and fatalistic," she trails off as she talks with her hands, recalling how often she told him that phrase and all the different ways she'd draw him out of his dark moods.

Meryn never realized that this- this moment right here- is the very first time.

"I _am_ grim and fatalistic," he agrees with her, hopefully not noticing her earlier flinch. "Could you come down?" Solas continues, impatient.

"No thanks," she throws him a bright smile over the side but makes no effort to move.

"Meryn, I have little patience today. Please." he growls out, rubbing his forehead in irritation.

"I never said I wouldn't talk to you Solas, I just don't want to go down there. Come up here." She gently pats the space next to her in invitation.  Even back then he knew her and how stubborn she gets when she's reached her threshold for surliness.

With an indulgent (yet irked) expression Solas disappears, reappearing at her side less then a minute later. Curious how he made it up so fast she peeks over the edge to see a ladder he found; to this day Meryn still has no idea where he got it from.

"May I have a moment please?" Solas asks again, drawing her attention back to him.

"Nope!" she chirps cheerily, getting a twisted enjoyment out of playfully torturing him. He throws his hands up in exasperation, getting up to leave when she grabs him by the elbow.

"Don't go."

Her words halt him, as she knew they would- though Meryn always suspected it had far more to do with her touching him for the first time since he gave her the veilfire necklace and _everything_ changed.

Solas pauses above her-eyes falling to the necklace around her throat- Meryn's hand still on his elbow, so she continues quickly. "Five minutes. That's it." The incredulous expression and slightly raised brow begs for an explanation.

While Solas is frightfully intelligent, and can usually keep up with her tangents and quirks, he can't always follow her train of thought. He's just an elf after all.

Maybe.

(Though that is a suspicion to ponder over at another time- not when reliving a memory of her more naive self.)

"Five minutes where you're not a Fade expert and I'm not the Inquisitor. You're just you and I'm just me," she finishes with a soft "please" and the most pleading expression she can muster.

He looks like he's about to disagree but changes his mind, submitting to her request. Meryn releases his elbow and he settles back down, taking in his new surroundings- noticing the close proximity of the barracks for the first time. (For all she knows it could actually _be_ the first time, her elf rarely ever left the rotunda or the main buildings in Skyhold).

Meryn can see the conflict in his face between wanting to discuss something he deems important and wanting to sate his curiosity at something she's done. She never understood why Solas found her so fascinating- Meryn was always under the impression she just is the way she is plain and simple- but he used to say the same about her infatuation with _him_.

In the end it ceased to matter- all that mattered to her was that he _did._

Inquisitiveness wins out, and she dances (internally) in triumph.

"What are you doing lethallan?" gesturing to the scene which now includes a Fade supplied bowl of Cabot's popping corn- lightly tossed in butter and salt just the way she likes.

"Spying on the recruits. It's nice to be around problems that don't affect the fate of the world once in awhile," she says casually tossing a kernel into her mouth.

He still looks unconvinced so she draws his attention to the familiar argument at the start of the memory.

"There's actually a bit of drama today," Meryn starts pointing to a window on the fourth floor. "Adams- the blonde- was caught using Beaumont's soaps and shampoos when she took a bath," explaining the situation conspiratorially under her breath while indicating the appropriate people.

"So?"

Men- she should clarify. Hobo apostate elves. Honestly.

"So what? They were from Orlais- and very expensive. The best in the empire. It's a travesty!" she exclaims in flamboyant indignation.

"How do you know?

"Know what?"

"That it's a travesty," his eyes are twinkling now as he teases her, finally relaxing and playing along.

Meryn loves _all_ of him- she doesn't question that- but there is something special about Solas when he is like this, just allowing himself to _be;_ forgetting about brooding and the endless worries of his mysterious responsibilities for just a second.

"Mostly because Beaumont just said so," she quips with a shrug. "How would I know? I spent the last half of my life in a forest."

The corner of his mouth turns up in a slight smile- she's got him now. Whatever was so pressing is totally forgotten for the time being.

"What are they saying now?" he asks, completely ignoring the view, eyes intent on her face. She turns back to the window.

"They're arguing about who's hair is nicer. Though I must say- Adams color is prettier but Beaumont's looks healthier. Maybe there really is something about the stuff from Or-" the feeling of her hair being released from the leather tie of her ponytail interrupts her, the silver strands settling around her face.

"Yours is far superior."

She turns to Solas, violet wide in surprise. He looks unrepentant; idly twirling the scrap of leather while grey refuses to look anywhere else except her face.

He raises a hand between them, extending a single finger to her hair, brushing it softly as if she's this precious thing made entirely of glass. He touches her so lightly she's not even sure she feels it- not that she would do anything if she could, because she can't.

Meryn's completely paralyzed like she was with Jowly's bees, only this time she's in a different kind of pain- a beautiful, gut-wrenching kind of heart cramp.

"The color is unique and the texture is pleasing without the frills of Orlais. They should seek out _your_ advice."

"Thank you?" she squeaks out, the emotions flooding her.

"You are welcome." He flashes the wolfish playful smirk that always made her insides turn to mush.

Almost as if he can sense her paralysis he flicks his wrist, summoning two blankets from a bed on the second floor. The blankets land between them, unseen by the residents of Skyhold except for the blonde mage walking the walls with a sad smile on his face.

Solas settles the blankets, giving them room to stretch out comfortably without getting dirty and still spy on the new soldiers. He helps Meryn after with a hand on her waist, and then releases her to lie down as well.

"What about them?" He points to a window on the third floor, resuming the conversation while exchanging the leather tie for a portion her hair, twirling and playing with it as he waits for her to speak, admiring the way it catches the sunlight.   Meryn tries to focus over the sudden buzzing in her ears at his closeness.

She rambles off something about a sneaky-witch-thief when Solas interrupts her again, only with his voice this time.

"When I found you, before Haven, before Skyhold, and for a time after- you hid your hair. Why?" He pauses, as if searching for the right way to phrase the next question.  She winces-not only at the memory of the repulsive brown of the black walnut dye- but also the necessity behind it.

"In Arlathan hair such as yours was considered a gift- something of reverence, not something to conceal. Do the Dalish no longer follow this practice?"

And there it was.

Meryn hopes the trepidation she's feeling doesn't transfer to her face. In her memory she shrugged his question off, telling him a piece of the truth- it's really hard to be sneaky when any light can make your head sparkle- because she hadn't wanted to give him another instance of the Dalish misrepresenting a piece of Arlathan.

But honestly, at the time she was scared- scared to reveal pieces of herself. She'd always thought there would be time, time to come to terms with herself, with Solas, and what he meant to her- and there had been time.

Until there wasn't.

Solas left and then there wasn't anything.

This Solas may only be dream Solas and Meryn telling him anything won't change a thing, but she feels like she should- for her sake at least.

"In your time with the Dalish did you ever see another person like me?"

"Never." He says the word simply enough but his voice bleeds conviction, suggesting a far deeper significance to the word that she can only guess at.

"Heard the phrase _Ghilan'asan En'an'sal_? He shakes his head though she knows he understands its translation-he speaks the most fluent Elvish she's ever heard.

"I've never seen another either- except my mother. It's rare enough the Dalish have a word for us- _ghilanasha_ \- believing we're lucky." She expects judgment in his eyes- his opinions of the Dalish always abundantly clear, but his face is devoid of any emotion except a desire to know about her.

Pleased, and feeling lighter, Meryn continues with a smile. "They say the _ghilanasha_ are born with the 'wisdom of senectitude' and blessed with the exuberance and time of youth," she rattles off from her memory, the meaning and importance of the word drilled into her at an early age.  But she can't help herself when she mocks the wisdom part- and any Dalish who actually knew her would too.

At least she has the exuberance part down.

She's trailed off, lost in her thoughts, but Solas subtly clears his throat, bringing her back.

"You did not answer the question lethallan." he says gently.

Meryn, surprised, casts a glance over her shoulder, feeling awkward, watching the blonde haired mage walk the wall, coming close enough to their little tower that he may even be able to hear them.

"I started doing it for self preservation I suppose. My mother, as she, well..." Realizing she never told Solas about her parents either makes everything a little harder, but Meryn decides to rush through it, ignoring the image of the druffalo charging at her that pops into her head.

"She started seeing things some times and she worried about me, insisting I cover my hair up because it was dangerous, that people would try and find me. Even after I went to the clan it was just easier then getting my hair pulled out all the time or having people follow me around asking for it."

A look of confusion settles over his face, and it's so foreign to his usual expressions Meryn can't help but grin.

"My hair is lucky- put it in a lover's knot and you get some Meryn Lavellan good luck and wisdom," she laughs, smiling sardonically at the irony.

"The _Ghilan'asan En'an'sal_?" Solas asks, comprehending.

"Exactly."

"Did any of them actually know you beforehand," he teases, fully aware of her _un_ luckiness.

"Nope- so I'm sure you can imagine the stir at the Arlathvhen," Meryn quips shivering at the memory of broken halla paddocks, pimples on brides faces and a violent storm that rained frogs.

He laughs at that, a rare full laugh, and the sound pulls at her, making Meryn realize how much she misses this- how much she misses _him_.

No longer in control of herself, entirely driven by longing and loneliness, she scoots closer to dream Solas, putting her hand on his cheek, stilling him immediately. He stares at her, unaffected by her closeness as his gaze drops to her lips. She returns his gaze sadly as the dream Solas closes the distance between them-

-only to disappear the moment before their lips touch.

And not just Solas disappears- Meryn's entire dream is suddenly gone, replaced by the cinnamon and honeysuckle field.

She didn't think it was possible to go from melancholy and sad to utterly _furious_ in three seconds but it is.

It most certainly is.

Meryn leaps up armed to the teeth, anticipating the demon's attack but when she looks around the only thing she sees is the blonde human mage- oddly enough looking just as angry as she feels- but what she can't figure out is _why_.

"Susceptible to the most obvious temptations. Varric did not inform me of the severity of the situation," the mage grits out through clenched teeth.

"Varric?" She studies him, choosing to ignore the fact that he was dream stalking her around Skyhold.

At first glance he appears human- tall, broad shouldered and muscular with his long blond hair tied back, accenting his brown eyes- but on closer inspection the sharp set of his features and the slight tip to his rounded ears give him away.

He's elf- blooded, but not a true Elvhen.

A half-elf.

Before she can say anything else he cuts her off, as if further offended by her scrutiny.

"Call me Feynriel. I am one of the Somniari and your tutor in the Fade."

Then, only half- finished with the introductions, he attacks her.


End file.
